


Sleep Apnea

by BogusLukewarm



Series: Sleep Apnea [1]
Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types
Genre: AU After S6x11 Knots Untie, Absolutely No Badly Written Regionalisms, Action, Alexandria Safe-Zone, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Canonical Character Death (Comics), Depression, Desus - Freeform, Eventual Relationships, Friendship, Hurt Daryl, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Male-Female Friendship, Physical Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, The Hilltop (Walking Dead), darus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:45:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6612988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BogusLukewarm/pseuds/BogusLukewarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl starts to contemplate where he stands in this, "New World". Takes place after Daryl suggests to Jesus the group take down the saviors in 6x11 Knots Untie, and continues AU from there on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scintilla

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fan fiction I've ever posted, and for that matter, the first story I've attempted to expand upon beyond a one shot. Hopefully, you guys like it. I've been pretty captivated by what a growing fandom/pairing Daryl/Jesus is turning out to be, and I look forward to contributing to it more myself. This could become a series if enough people enjoy it. I've taken the plot AU from the meeting with Jesus, and Rick's group in Hilltop where Daryl suggest they attack the saviors in exchange for a portion of Hilltop's resources. 
> 
> There's a lot of decisions the writers of the show make, that I am personally unhappy with, so I was excited to present a new take of my own. What I'm trying to say is Denise's death was unnecessary, and both Maggie and Michonne need more dialogue. Also, while we're at it... what's going on with Carol? 
> 
> Anyways, enough of my gratuitous ranting haha. Please, please, please feel free to comment! Whether it be negative, or positive, I love the feedback, and can use all the help I can get. Huge shoutout to ComfortableLiar for betaing this little tale, and whose name you probably recognize if you've ever been in the comment, or kudos section of your own fanficitons. Happy reading!

****

# Chapter 1

# 

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# Scintilla

# 

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By now they all assumed he was asexual, and by all accounts, perhaps he was. Daryl didn't really consider sex, or for that matter relationships, all too much. Especially considering the situation, consisting mostly of death and uncertainty. The flesh eating monsters never set the mood too well, either. For Daryl, sex was barely even contemplated as something that could, or should happen. It was like trying to fly a kite in the pouring rain: basically useless, and mostly stupid.

Besides that, it wasn't a desire. For Rick? For Abraham? It was probably a pretty strong urge. It had to be anyways, what else would cause them to act that asininely about any one person?

Daryl saw romance, at least for now, as desperate, and that wasn't a conclusion formulated in jealousy, either. It was deduced through common sense, which was a little special something that his companions didn't always seem to understand.

Take Maggie and Glenn. Their baby was created through love, sure, but it was also a futile grasping in vain for a forgotten existence. It was a selfish attempt at creating normalcy and stability. Which, coincidentally, were two fanciful concepts that could never be achieved again.

However, the argument could be made that Daryl has no clue what love was, or how one is allowed to respond to it. Daryl was admittedly inept in the field of romance, and tragically detached from it. At this point, virginity seemed like a physical attribute more than a temporary phase.

At least the people he associated with made it seem like an asset to be single.

The term Daryl would use to describe all these envisages would be bullshit. The only basis he had for regarding his current situation now was on account of the people around him.

Usually, these types of musings would be on the back burner, and with good reason.

But now? It seemed as though the concept of love was being forced down his gullet by everyone he considered a friend. Abraham appeared to Daryl as though he was having some forlorn crisis of heart, Rick seemed to feel as though Michonne was a proper substitute for the sparingly mentioned tragedy of Jessie, and Glenn and Maggie seemed to make a sport out of being overbearingly sentimental. He really couldn’t particularly tell you which one of them was winning.

Bitterness wasn’t at all part of Daryl’s repertoire of emotions, at least he didn’t see it that way. He just happened to lean towards pessimism, because pessimism never let anyone down. 

Daryl loved his family. He loved Glenn and Maggie, and their bondless affection was endearing. He loved Rick and Michonne, and felt that whatever they had was probably exactly what both of them needed. Abraham wasn’t some mess of a man either, and whatever he felt he deserved out of life was his own business. Perhaps it was ignorant demanding of a broken universe a fresh start, but then again perhaps it was brave. He cared for them all, and yet he still realized on a daily basis how easy it would be to slip away.

"Daryl," Rick says with focused intensity, hurriedly walking towards him down the mansion steps. "Can I talk to you?" He sidles up to him outside the mansion entrance as Daryl jumps to his feet.

He never really understands why Rick asks beforehand, like Rick actually gives him an option to listen to him talk.

"What's up?" Daryl asks, knowing it's something he probably doesn't want to grapple with.

"This Negan, you met up with his men, and you seem pretty willing to face them head on. Are we making the right move offering Gregory a deal? We don't even know these saviors that well."

"They're pricks," Daryl says flatly, "And they're bullying innocent people with murder. Their whole deal is intimidation. I say we make them feel intimidated for once."

Rick squints as the sun setting ahead of them gleams.

"So you think this is the right decision?"

Daryl ponders that for a second.

"Is there really a right decision anymore? We just gotta do what we gotta do," Daryl decides.

Rick nods, "I spoke to Jesus. He's going to run the whole proposition past Gregory when he comes to. Apparently the medication knocked him out. He won’t be up for bargaining until tomorrow, maybe later than that."

"I'm sure the knife in his stomach didn't make him feel too giddy neither," Daryl says, his mind flashing through today's events.

“What do you think about this place?” Rick questions, “You trust them?”

“They can’t fight,” Daryl weighs, “But they seem alright. Maybe a little squirrelly.”

“I can’t blame them there. They just saw their leader stabbed in cold blood,” Rick places his hands on his hips, and looks beyond Daryl.

“And a pack of strangers kill one of their own,” Daryl stares at Rick from beneath the hair skewing his view.

Rick clicks his tongue, “Yeah,” he draws, “I think I might be scared of us, too.” He reconnects with Daryl’s gaze. "Jesus said if we wanted to make ourselves helpful to this community one of us could take watch tonight on the wall. Everyone here is mourning Ethan, the uh… guy I …y’know. You wanna handle that?"

Daryl gives Rick a quick nod, "Yeah, I got it," he responds quietly, "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Night," Rick responds, throwing Daryl a small smile, "Jesus found us a place in the mansion. We'll be there tonight if you need us. I'm sure he can find you a place to sleep too."

Daryl gives Rick a quirk of his head and begins his trek up to the watch posts on the wall.

There was a silent language they both spoke, and Daryl would be lying if he didn't admit that Rick understood him better than most people ever could. Rick wasn't a stranger to the dramatics of the people around him, yet he suffered so little. Daryl had an infinite respect for Rick's ability to deal with almost any obstacle, even if his approach wasn't always Daryl's ideal method of resolve. Daryl had a tendency to disconnect, and a longing to disassociate from the aspects of chaos which he couldn't control. Rick seemed to attract chaos, and then challenge himself to develop a new operandi of control towards it. It was a talent, and Rick was a leader.

That's why he never understood why Rick felt the need to have a significant other in his life at all intervals of empty time. It was infuriating. As if after everything they went through, his friend could be so clueless as to assume that peace was on the horizon.

Although Daryl found in Rick a true friend, and in the members of his group a family, he still so often felt distant from their reality. Maybe Daryl's problem was that he had never held the expectation that a normal life was available to him.

However, the intricacies of his world view were not of importance. Dwelling on the trivial, and inescapable facts was a distraction, and the last thing he needed at the moment was to be distracted. In territory which was infested with as many Saviors as there were walkers, Daryl didn’t have spare time to ponder life as he stood guard. Rick, and his apparent new girlfriend, Michonne was none of his business, and the flighty instability of Abraham was nothing more than infuriating. The task at hand was to guard, and the only thought on his mind should be guarding.

In the back of his mind, there was the lingering thought that his time on the wall would be interrupted by something. He expected the ever-present threat of a walker hoard, or savior ambush to be the culprits, not a man who chose to dress himself like a shoplifter.

On second thought, it wasn't too exponentially peculiar. It had become abundantly clear to him that Jesus was something close to enamored with him only a handful of hours after being in his presence.

Ever since he had met Jesus, he had seen the constant glances, and the way he seemed to talk in his direction. It was no different than the signs he had witnessed between Michonne and Rick.

Daryl, despite popular belief, was not a fool. He could spot a school yard crush as easily as anyone else. His approach was just unconventional in the sense that he felt no interest in exploring these feelings. Or, for that matter, his own. Instead of indulging Jesus, or Paul, or whatever he wanted to call himself, he simply tried to show the young man as little affection as possible. The philosophy being that you can't really work with nothing.

Jesus, on the other hand, was insistently cordial.

Daryl hears the gentle tap of feet tip-toeing nearer him.

“Who is it?” He asks sharply, without turning his head.

“I was going to say something,” Jesus says genteelly from behind him, “I had no intention of sneaking up on you.”

“Uh huh,” Daryl slurs, now aware of his secret admirer’s true identity.

Jesus slinks up to him like a cat to its feeding dish. He places his hands against the rails of the wall, shadowing Daryl’s comportment.

“You people really made a statement today,” he says objectively.

“Yep,” Daryl responds, “So did ya’ll.”

“Oh?” Jesus says, his fascination heightened, “What impression did we leave?”

“That you don’t know how to go about shit,” Daryl looks over at Jesus, as the other man meets his gaze. “Unless it requires a green thumb.”

The eagerness in Jesus’ eyes fades, and he turns back to the scenery beyond the wall.

“Okay,” he hums sensibly, “I see I’m striking out with you, Daryl.”

He stays quiet for a beat. Daryl predicts that Jesus is reassessing the bulk of conversation starters he has, and rallying himself to try again.

Daryl is quickly proven correct.

"You hold your weapon with such purpose," Jesus reflects, sliding down against the wall, "Yet, you're clearly skilled in hand to hand combat. Which do you prefer?"

Daryl squeezes his eyes shut for a few fleeting seconds, imaging perfect scenarios. Ones where people didn't feel the incessant need to engage others in small talk, or try and figure him out through light conversation.

He doesn't look at Jesus, there's really no need to. Jesus does enough staring for both of them.

"What I prefer is my bow. And silence."

"Ah," Jesus harps, as if he knew Daryl would respond in a manner similar to this, "You need time to yourself to reflect. Every great warrior does."

Daryl blenched and turned quickly to Jesus who had decided to squat next to him on the planks of wood.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Can you just talk normal? Or not talk at all?"

"Would that be preferable?" Jesus quips, with a hint of sincerity in his eyes.

Daryl shifts slightly, "Well yeah I just said that didn't I?"

Jesus nods, "Guess you did make it pretty clear you'd rather I shut up. Should I go?"

Daryl shakes his head, "I mean you can stay but just ... Enough with all the talking, alright? You were trying to sneak up on me before, and for no good reason. Might’ve scared me too if I hadn’t known it was you. If you’re so damn chatty, why’s it you forgot how to talk then?"

“I was going to say something,” Jesus reiterates.

“Well, it put me in a bad mood,” Daryl states plainly.

“I apologize,” Jesus says, “Really.”

“I’m sure,” Daryl bites, “Alright, now…” Daryl moves his hand nearest Jesus in a zig-zag pattern, “Ssh, ssh, ssh.”

The corners of Jesus' mouth upturn so subtly that Daryl almost wouldn't notice if it wasn't for the moon's position. There was a delicate light reflecting onto the entirety of them both, and cascading down onto the glossy grass below them. It was the perfect evening to be perfectly still and Daryl wasn't going to squander it away shooting the breeze.  
Daryl looks out beyond the walls of Hilltop as Jesus leans against the planks beside his legs. It's fine, as far as Daryl's concerned. Sure, Jesus presence could be less existent, and more nonexistent. But, there were plenty of bright sides. The world was sleeping wistfully and the moon was full and proud. The soughing all about them was a symphony of nature, and the occasional howl was a subdued crescendo crashing in. The gun in his hands felt heavy, and so he flipped the safety on and laid it down beside him.

Daryl couldn't imagine a better feeling than being alone.

"Hey," Jesus says, hushed and sheepish, like a boy to his fellow classmate during the teacher's presentation. "Can I ask you something else?"

"I guess," Daryl says beneath his breathe. Maybe it's the cool breeze sliding its fingers through his hair, or Jesus' apparent reverence for the moment he's having, but either way, he feels less apprehensive.

"Do you ever want to run? You seem so confident in your people, like when you offered to take out the saviors for us. There was a fierceness in you... for them, but there's also ... a reservation."

Daryl knows Jesus is being invasive, but there's a twinge, a sprinkle of something in his tone that brings Daryl to part his lips and say, "Yeah, sometimes."

"Sometimes is okay," Jesus says softly. There's total neutrality to him.

"More like a lot," Daryl says, to earnestly for his liking. He musses with his hair, then recklessly blurts, "Why do you care anyways? What's it matter to you what I feel? If Gregory says yes, we help you. If he decides to sit on his ass for another month waiting for Negan to come lay waste to this place, then we scram."

"Daryl," Jesus says, too close to patronizing for Daryl's taste, "I'm asking because I want to know you better, not your group's intentions." Jesus begins to rise from his seat on the hard wood, "I know-"

Daryl swishes his finger in Jesus' direction as he blurts, "I know you've got a thing for me. I can tell. This ain’t the way to go about it.”

Jesus' eyebrow quirks gently and a flare of mischief erupts in his eyes, "Is that so?"

"Yeah, you ain't as discreet as you think, man."

Jesus licks his lips and lets out a bemused gust of laughter, "What are you going to do Daryl? Tell on me? Alert the town there's a gay man in their midst?"

Daryl shook his head in utter annoyance, "What? You think I give a fuck about that? I'm just saying I ain't interested."

Jesus nods passively, "Because I'm a man, yeah I'm putting the pieces together, thanks."

"No," Daryl draws, his anger accentuating his accent, "It ain't because you're a man or nothing."

Jesus quirks his head, "... Then why?"

Daryl huffs and throws his arms as far as one could confined to a lookout post.

"Because I just ain't into that sorta thing. I ain't got time for that shit."

Jesus smirks, "I knew you weren't straight. Not from how you were looking at Rick."

Daryl's body flies around to face Jesus, "What?" He almost hisses.

"Quiet resentment over that woman, his wife. Perhaps unjustified resentment."

"Shut up," Daryl yaps, gathering his gun in his hands, “And they ain’t married or nothing alright?” He doesn’t understand why it felt important to include that.

Jesus seems to suddenly become aware that his observations were not as witty to Daryl as they were to him. He places his hands on Daryl's shoulders as he begins to stomp past him. "Daryl listen, I'm sorr-"

"Ah, don't even start," he barks, "You can take the fucking watch. I don't care if this whole damn place becomes a walker buffet." He shrugs off Jesus' touch, and trudges past him.

Jesus' watches him clomp down the stairs muttering, "Fight them off with your damn karate moves, that'll teach them not to mess with the great and powerful Hilltop."

Daryl hoped that nosey prick heard every word.


	2. Tête-à-Tête

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# Chapter 2

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# Tête-à-Tête

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Daryl knew that it was a bad idea to even match eyes with Jesus again. The man was a complete and utter waste of his time, and in Daryl’s opinion nothing would change that. There still inside him hung the inextinguishable urge to confront him again. 

It wasn’t Jesus’ constant spewing of eloquent drivel, or his honed quality of making an individual feel intensely critiqued that Daryl was obsessing over. It was his comments which so carelessly slid off his tongue and into Daryl’s brain to wreak havoc. Daryl craved the knowledge of just exactly what Jesus based all his lofty conjectures on. Obviously, Daryl was presenting himself in a way that attracted people like Jesus, or for that matter, people at all.

That had to change.

He spends most of his night soundlessly scouring the camp, and assessing every facet of it, and himself. He stays up long enough to watch the asleep awaken, and perches himself on the mansion steps again, waiting for Rick. He watches a young man climb the expanse of the wall to meet Jesus, and then send Jesus down. He assumes the morning guard as just arrived.

Jesus glides across the slick grass below his feet to a canopy where a woman in her late 40’s is preparing herself breakfast. He greets the woman ducked down at her make shift stove, then disappears inside a trailer beside hers. There’s no awning in front of it, but a small block of wood to lift yourself into the mobile home. Finally Jesus returns, the door flipping open to reveal him. He makes his way out of the living accommodation, but stops suddenly. He takes a quick glance at his foot, then slumps down onto the wooden step stool to tie his shoe.

It seems to Daryl to be the best opportunity he’ll have to squash whatever uncertainties he has bubbling inside him. Although, the prospect of requiring someone else to help him resolve anything seems tedious.

Accosting a stranger isn’t always the most polite course of action, but Daryl never really considered himself polite, or a planner.

Daryl bounds from his seat on the mansion steps toward Jesus’ location. Jesus doesn’t peer up at him until Daryl is within arm’s length.

“Listen here,” Daryl says in a hushed almost growl, rounding on Jesus where he sat. The man didn’t appear to be even remotely indignant, or shocked by Daryl’s sudden ambush. Daryl begins to infer that perhaps this is some fantasy of his, and that the best option was to make this confrontation short, and sweet.

“I don’t wanna make a habit of this, but-”

“Of what, speaking to me?” Jesus says, a note of sarcasm dancing off his tongue.

“It ain’t that particularly, just that I don’t really like taking time out of my day to talk… philosophy, or whatever with you.” 

Jesus grins, his attention floating back down to his boot, “And yet, here you are, getting ready to talk philosophy or whatever with me.”

Daryl feels like kicking dirt and releasing from his core the most guttural clamoring he can muster. Instead of resulting to these dramatics, like most days, he simply sighs.

“Alright, well for starters, I ain’t here to write poems with you, and I ain’t gonna be sassed by someone who dresses like a damn hobo in the Matrix.”

Jesus furrows, “The trench coat allows for more mobility than one may assume.”

“All I got is one thing to ask you, then I’m gone,” Daryl says, trying his best to portray the finality he desires to be in that statement.

“Okay, that’s simple enough,” Jesus says, his voice almost sparkling, “What question do you have for me, Daryl?”

“What the fuck were you talking about ‘how you look at Rick’,” he says, attempting to imitate the smooth texture of Jesus’ voice, “What in the hell was that about?”

“You need me to elaborate on that?” Jesus inquires, tilting his head forward, “Really?”

Daryl suddenly feels like he’s being left out of a joke, and the joke is at his expense. He feels like a child in school again, with the whole class whispering and staring. 

An anger bursts in him as he solicits why the fuck people feel the need to avoid being forward.

“Yeah, I need you to fucking break it down for me, man. Because I’m too fucking stupid to get it on my own,” Daryl says, a dangerous mildness in his voice.

“Let’s not make believe, Daryl,” Jesus replies, au courant, and unperturbed grace as he lifts himself onto his feet.

“You’re incredibly intelligent, and observe this world as well as I do. The only aspects of this existence you tend to ignore, are the ones you have no desire to face.”

Every word that drifted off of Jesus’ lips sounded like he was liberating it from his brain. It was exasperating. That’s why, despite the fact Daryl may understand, or may even agree, there was no harm in making Jesus spell it out for him. Jesus obviously enjoyed hearing himself talk, and Daryl was tired of making assumptions of what vague monologues were supposed to mean.

It was time Jesus cut to the chase, a notion Daryl presumed may unfortunately be lost on the man.

“So, what?” Daryl begins, “You think I’m lying to myself or something?”

Jesus smiles gently, “Can I take you on a walk?”

Daryl’s first thought is that this is a date. People’s comprehension skills don’t just improve from being in motion.

His immediate response is, “No, I ain’t going on no damn walk.” 

“Why not?” Jesus harps, “I don’t know what’s so threatening about a casual walk.”

“For all I know,” Daryl starts, but quickly reassesses. Actually saying the word ‘date’, in a romantic sense while braving an apocalypse was more embarrassing than he first discerned. He settles on, “… A walk ain’t threatening. I just don’t get why we need to go on one now.”

“It’s my morning walk. You enjoy the night air, and I prefer the coolness of the dawn. Come with me, or we’ll both miss it.”

Daryl studies Jesus’ face, then says, “Okay, but don’t try nothing.”

Jesus laughs airily, “I couldn’t pull anything over on you Daryl. That’s part of your charm.”

Jesus pulls himself up, and beckons Daryl to pursue him with a careless, “C’mon, follow me,” his words a facile success.

Daryl tepidly steals behind Jesus as the other man leads him towards the looming gates of Hilltop. Jesus gives a nod to the guard who took his watch duty on the wall, and then he turns to Daryl. 

“Help me open her up,” he says, and Daryl unconsciously moves to help Jesus pry the gates open. The two men on the wooden railing overhead shout down at them.

“Go on Jesus, we got it,” says a dark haired man on the right flank, and the man to his left nods.

“Thanks, Kal. Eduardo,” Jesus says politely, and slips between the two heavy doors. Daryl follows suit behind him.

Daryl has an acute, nagging slideshow in his head. It tells a forlorn sob story of peril overcoming the humble base, and consuming his friends. All the while, Daryl is taking a leisurely stroll through the nearby shrubbery. 

He can’t imagine being left alone in this world with the man beside him.

Jesus’ voice cuts through his mental disposition for events merely projected.

“I have a certain path I’ve carved out over a number of months,” Jesus begins, “It’s my own private trail. Probably not the smartest course of action, to ever be that overt, but it’s nice. I love to sort of revel in my progress.”

The initial inclination is to say he doesn’t truly care. Honesty is in fact the best policy. Instead, he bows his head and sighs inwardly.

“So, they just don’t give a damn? You leaving whenever you feel like it?” Daryl says.

“Yeah, well,” Jesus ducks his head to the side, “I think most of my people can be blissfully ignorant. It’s somewhat endearing… at times.”

Daryl releases a saturnine chuckle without giving his mouth permission to do so.

“What?” Jesus simpers, “Can you relate?”

Daryl makes a noise of uncertainty, “Sure,” he settles on sarcastically, “But my people know how to throw a punch, at least.” He shakes his head, “Well alright, so they’re kinda… clueless, at times, but that don’t explain nothing.”

“You want to know why they don’t care where I wander off to?” Jesus inquires, “Well, your guess is as good as mine. It might be my fault. I can be stand-offish.”

“You know that’s bullshit,” Daryl quips, “C’mon you’re their best fighter, hell, their only fighter, and ain’t nobody asking you where you’re running off to?”

“No, they’re really not,” Jesus snaps, “Not to be rude, but they expect a lot of me because I’m the only one to deliver. They appreciate me, not for what I am, but what I do. They only notice my absence when they need me, for whatever reason, to be present.” Jesus tucks his hair behind his ears brusquely. 

Darryl notices his steps had much more brute to them as they landed on the earth below.

“You resent them, then. Is that it?” Daryl bids, “You’re feeling used?”

Jesus’ mouth moves into a straight line, “Yeah, maybe,” he smiles vaguely, and glances back at Daryl, “Maybe, I’m just trying to be more open. Teaching you how it’s done.”

Daryl wants to roll his eyes, “Yeah, yeah I didn’t even know you could get mad. I thought you were the Zen master, all…” Daryl swishes his hand begrudgingly about his head, “Enlightened, and shit. Some no negativity deal.” 

Jesus laughs, and Daryl sees his body rise and fall with each bright noise he relinquishes. He slows his walk to be beside Daryl as the humor wears off of him slowly.

“Trust me when I say this Daryl,” he remarks, amusement still gamboling with him, “I have been so exceedingly angry at this world, and myself so many times that I no longer felt like I was capable of anything other than that one, single emotion.”

He sighs, letting the remaining, jovial remnants of Daryl’s words go, “See, I’ve been so angry, so exponentially angry that I knew there was no return from it. I’ve felt before as if,” he makes a noise low in his throat, “Well, that I could never relearn happiness, or know contentment. I’ve been so angry those words seemed like complicated terms from some foreign language.”

Daryl feels as if he’s listening to a recovering addict’s life story. At the end of it, he knows he’s going to be asked of something, be it money, prolonged emotional support, or another unspecified form of donation on his behalf.

“I’m glad you’ve handled that,” Daryl decides upon, and immediately regrets his choice of words.

With Daryl, the sarcasm was either too blatant to miss, or too subtle to notice. He wasn’t even sure himself which way his most current phrasing leaned.

“Oh, they’re far from handled,” Jesus retorts, “All those unpleasant situations we go through? The damage doesn’t disappear just because I will it to. The only thing I’m able to do is will it away somewhere else. I have to find a way to justify all this, and my justification is that this is a new world, one that cares so little about you it doesn’t think twice about batting a lash when you go down screaming and pleading.”

Jesus shakes his head, and his long, umber locks sway along with him. “People will mourn me, they might avenge me. They’ll mostly just wonder, ‘Whose going to fill the spot he left behind?’”

“Fuck,” Daryl says absently, his face scrunched in comprehension. He looks up at Jesus, “You’re a ray of fucking sunshine, man.”

Jesus shrugs, “We’re being honest with each other, aren’t we?”

“You are,” Daryl ripostes, “Don’t remember any conditions being made.”

He trudges ahead of Jesus a ways, his hand moving to push a small limb out of his way. Jesus quickens his steps ever so discreetly.

“So you want me to be an open book, and you just get to read me cover to cover? How is that fair,” Jesus asks, a playfulness to demeanor.

“Didn’t ask you to be honest either. Feel free to shut up at any time,” Daryl says impassively.

“You wouldn’t want me to do that,” Jesus says artfully, “How will I answer the ever-present question on your mind?”

Daryl mumbles, “Shit,” and remembers in the wake of Jesus’ cunning tone why he’s walking in the woods with a stranger in the first place.

“You mentioned it,” Daryl says piqued, “I’m out here with you.”

“Do you want me to go ahead and explain the intricacies of your feelings for Rick, or would you rather me pause now?”

“Of course I have feelings for Rick,” Daryl booms, his petulant rage seeping into the conversation, “He’s my friend, he’s… I mean, at this point he’s my family. I’d be a real asshole to not have feelings for him!”

Jesus lets out a humored sigh that’s brimming with chagrin on Daryl’s behalf.

“Okay,” Jesus says in patient vexation, “Well, I think it goes a little further than that, Daryl.”

Daryl felt patronized, but he checked his tendencies towards affront at the door once the two of them began the conversation. There was no doubt an urge to erupt, but Daryl’s interest had been provoked beyond irritation. At this point, he just needed to prove Jesus wrong.

“You think I’m, what? In love? With Rick?” Daryl says, a thick emphasis on almost every other word.

“No, no,” Jesus says stoically, “It may not be love. It is, however, safe to say that it’s infatuation.”

“Oh my-,” Daryl begins, tossing his hands up, “You’re fucking unbelievable."

“And yet, you still haven’t denied it,” Jesus chirps, turning towards Daryl.

“I’m denying it!” Daryl bawls.

That was, more or less a lie.

Daryl could divulge within himself that he was in awe of Rick frequently. There was a compelling nature to him that made Daryl never want to question his motives, but simply ask, “How high?"

Jesus, however, did not need to know that.

“You’re really going to look me in the eye and tell me that you’re not the smallest bit obsessed with your fearless leader,” Jesus probes.

Daryl stomps in front of Jesus, and stares him dead in the eye, “Yes.” 

It was the principle.

“So you’re admitting it?” Jesus says gaily, his feet coming to a halt in front of Daryl. “That’s good.”

“Wait, no, you’re…” Daryl points a finger in Jesus’ direction, “That’s not what I meant. Quit playing,” he counters.

Jesus beams a little, “There’s no shame in it. You do realize this?”

“You make everything I think seem dirty,” he speaks at Jesus, not to him. “Trying to make me admit everything like it’s something I need to admit.” His body sways away from Jesus, “When is this walk gonna end?”

“We probably should head back,” Jesus says, turning his back to Daryl, “We wouldn’t Rick to worry about your whereabouts.”

Daryl grits his teeth, and follows after Jesus.

“You know, I’m real close to punching your lights out, and just leaving your ass here.”

“How would you know my lights are out? I fooled you the first time,” Jesus smirks.

Daryl roisters within momentarily, then enthuses, “I knew it. I knew you were leaning against me. Something about it… I had an idea what you were doing.”

“So observant,” Jesus praises, only a hint of sportive sarcasm.

“Not as well as you,” Daryl mock disparages, “I can’t even fucking tell who I’m secretly in love with, apparently.”

“Oh, don’t be mad,” Jesus entreats pleasantly, “I only said what you asked me to say.”

“Nah, we ain’t talking anymore,” Daryl demands.

Jesus obeys, and wordlessly keeps pace beside Daryl as they steadily approach Hilltop.

Daryl would comment that at least it was scenic, but the scene was nothing he hadn’t seen before.

As soon as they return, Michonne approaches him. He feels an unidentified, and nuanced awkwardness being seen with Jesus.

Michonne gives Jesus a tight, forced smile, and he takes the queue to leave.

She glares at him until finally he’s out of ear shot. Maybe. 

“I can’t look at that guy without remembering he’s seen me naked. Shit,” she turns her focus back to Daryl, “He’s kind of an unnerving guy.”

“No shit,” Daryl says, watching him still.

“You two friends, now? That was quick,” Michonne comments, completely unaffected.

“Fuck no,” Daryl snips, “What’s going on, anyways? We made a deal?”

“Better than that, Gregory took the deal. He just got done speaking with Maggie,” she gestures with her neck towards the large mansion behind them.

“Maggie?” Daryl says, only floored enough to want to know why.

“Yeah, you know how it is. Ever since Deanna put all that in her head, she’s been trying to step up,” Michonne shrugs her head, “She must be pretty good at it. She persuaded Gregory.”

“Well, I don’t doubt she can do it. Not at all,” Daryl hums with assurance.

“Rick said we’re heading back to Alexandria soon. You good to go?” Michonne questions with a flip of her finger in his direction.

“Yeah. S’go,” he responds, as they make their way towards the mansion together.

Rick is inside talking with Maggie when they arrive.

“He’s drugged up for sure, but he made his intentions pretty clear to me,” she looks at Michonne and Daryl, then back to Rick, “He said he’d give us half of everything they have if we’re willing to wipe out the Saviors for good.”

Maggie lays her hand on Rick’s shoulder, “I’m asking you now. We need to be sure on this.” She looks frankly at him, “Do you want to do this? Can we take these people on?”

Rick swishes his head, from one side to the other, then settles his gaze on Maggie, “These guys, they’re not nice guys.”

“It’s not a moral dilemma, Rick,” She sighs with frustration, “I know these bastards need to die. This is me asking you what the sacrifice will be for us. For our family.”

Michonne speaks from beside Daryl, and both Rick and Maggie turn to look at her. 

“What will the sacrifice be when they find Alexandria? When one of us has to die just to prove a point?”

“Maybe we should wait,” Maggie proposes, “We can lay low. Build an army. Andy, he's the one who came in with the man who tried to kill Gregory, he can show us their base. Hell, we could bomb it.”

“With what?” Michonne argues, her annoyance restrained, “They already know about us. When Daryl, Abraham and Sasha met those Saviors out on the road, they incinerated them. You think Negan hasn’t heard about that?”

“I’m sure he has,” Maggie exerts, “But that doesn’t mean we’re running out of time. We have to be careful here. We have no clue what these men are capable of, or for that matter how powerful they are. Jesus says Hilltop hasn’t fought back because they don’t have the skill, or resources. That’s probably true, but no one else has taken them out either. Why is that?”

“No one had taken Terminus down until we got there neither,” Michonne says lowly.

“Maggie,” Rick says, stern sympathy flooding his voice. “You said we’re not running out of time. I don’t think that’s true,” he looks at her the way he so easily can. Daryl knows how Rick can stare into you, and in that moment, if he promised you he could take on the world, even rationality couldn’t keep you from believing him. 

“I think that we’re running on borrowed time,” he says, “And I think that without food, none of this is even worth discussing. If we have to kill a couple bad guys so that we can survive, then that’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

He felt bad for Maggie. She was about to be persuaded into participating in something that every fiber in her being was telling her couldn’t be done. Maggie was only stating the obvious. It would be rare to escape this unscathed, and Maggie knew about consequences.

Maggie had chosen to have a life grow inside her. She knew damn well about consequences. 

“Michonne is right. It’s only a matter of time before these men find us, and it won’t matter how many people we have or haven’t killed. Thy will be relentless, regardless of any precautions we might have taken.”

Maggie crosses her arms slowly, and looks as if she’s trying to untangle the nerves throughout her body.

“Fine,” she says finally, “I’ll go with you on this.”

“It’s our last resort,” Michonne says quietly, “Right now, it’s all just a game to them, and we have to make the first move, or we could have no moves left to make.”

“I’ll try and see it as an opportunity,” Maggie says morosely. “I’ve got something to do before we leave for Alexandria. I’ll meet back later.” She gives them all a trusting look, and makes her way past Michonne and Daryl.

“Let’s load everything in the RV,” Rick says tepidly.

Michonne, Daryl, Abraham and Michonne are piling their new stock of food into the RV when Jesus approaches them.

“Daryl,” he begins brightly, “Mind if I tag along?”

Rick flashes a look to Daryl then responds, “We need to drop our resources off first. We’ll come back to Hilltop and get you, and Andy. Maggie talked to him this morning, and he wants to help us see our way around Negan’s base.”

“Andy told me,” Jesus returns, “I’ll be waiting.” He gives them all an innocuous smile, then turns away.

“Huh,” Abraham huffs, “Well, someone’s taken a liken to you.”

“Stop,” Daryl says, craning his neck to look at Abraham.

“They went on a walk this morning,” Michonne snickers beneath the dourness she burdens herself to display, “But they’re not friends or nothing.”

“Oh,” Abraham draws, “A morning jaunt, huh? Did ya’ll watch the sunrise?” He mocks.

“Why’d you do this to me,” Daryl asked Michonne, feeling thoroughly antagonized.

“Why did you go on a walk with him?” Rick asks, his tone more earnest than the other two heckling him.

Daryl contemplates briefly how detrimentally terrifying the truth is, and how even more stupendously mortifying saying it aloud would be.

“He wanted my help. Identifying some berries he found, a natural something or nother. I zoned out,” Daryl says lifting another crate inside the small doorway of the RV.

“I kinda like the little guy,” Abraham says, inspecting his gloves before plucking a splinter from his palm. “He’s stealthy y’know, kinda cool with that duster and all.”

“Uh huh,” Michonne says, separating the two words with misgiving.

“Ah, you just don’t like him ‘cause he caught you and Rick making whoopee,” Abraham says with a sweep of his hand.

“I think we can stop discussing this now,” Rick says with bemused resoluteness.

Daryl agrees with Rick. Discussing Jesus made him feel like he was playing Russian roulette. His whole existence made Daryl feel an inexorable rush of discomposure and immense humiliation. The man was the human embodiment of discomfort, and the last thing Daryl needed on his mind at the moment was Jesus.

There was a war to wage, and win.

They are all settling into the RV when Glenn and Maggie reappear.

Maggie takes a seat inside the RV with Glenn, and her face is warmer than before. She’s taxed, but steadier.

“Here,” she says, pulling a photo out of her pocket, “We went to see Harlan, he’s the obstetrician. Look.”

It’s poised at Abraham, and so his worn hands outstretch for the slip of paper. He holds it in his hands like a dove as his eyes examine the portrait. As Abe begins to pass it to Daryl, he catches Glenn’s eyes with a knowing glimpse.

Daryl knows the look. It’s pride between two men, and its admiration. Daryl knows the look, but its significance has always been lost on him. Admiration, and adoration seemed to come hand in hand for Daryl; they were rarely separate emotions.

The black and white image stares up at him. It’s an ultrasound picture, but to Daryl it just looks like monochrome pudding.

There is a stirring in him, though. He knows there’s a symbolism in this, because his eyes feel strained, and his heart much heavier.

He hands the photograph back to Maggie and musters an honest upturning of his lips. They ride in a silence that speaks of pensive understanding all the way to Alexandria.

Daryl’s engrossing is not on the gruesome genocide of human lives they are preparing to administer in a plight of righteous deliverance for Hilltop, and all those oppressed. It is instead on why a picture of a fetus could almost choke him up.

Daryl inwardly interrogates himself until the RV creaks to a stop.

He can't seem to find a rejoinder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 3 & 4 are coming soon. Comments, and feedback are always the highlight of my writing! Go ahead, make my day, you sexy thing, you.


	3. Exodus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thank you so much for all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and users who gave my story hits! I really appreciate all the outspoken readers who like to leave feedback, and I appreciate those who just like to read as well! All of you guys give me the encouragement to keep writing! From this chapter on, I will be posting a new chapter every week at least, and potentially more. This chapter has in it a canonical character death, and a few mild depictions of violence, but nothing of graphic detail. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

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# Chapter 3

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# Exodus

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“Do you really think letting Carol watch over the home front was a wise decision?” Abraham directs at Rick, “I mean, ain’t she the sort of asset we need right about now?”

“I don’t trust Morgan,” Rick replies, “I do, however, trust Carol to handle Morgan if, and when, he endangers Alexandria.”

Rosita rolls her eyes, “We should’ve brought him along, Rick. He could kill the saviors with kindness, and we wouldn’t have to break a sweat.”

Daryl snorts laughter.

“Hey,” Glenn beckons to her, “C’mon, that’s how he deals with all this. It’s a coping mechanism. You can’t fault him for believing in redemption.”

“Actually, I sorta can,” Rosita comebacks.

“So, Carol and the Alexandrians? That’s our back up when the shit hits the fan?” Abraham asks Rick.

“Tara knows how to hold her own,” Aaron says, “And quite a few of those Alexandrians are well equipped to handle an invasion. Tobin, Heath, even Spencer.”

“Don’t forget Eugene,” Rosita says derisively.

“Hopefully we wipe them all out,” Sasha says, her focus on Aaron, “And then we won’t have to worry about Alexandria.”

“Did Enid not come?” Maggie says, conveying her sudden cognizance that the young girl was nowhere to be found within the RV.

“I told her to stay behind with Carol,” Carl responds from beside Daryl, “She’s more of an asset there.”

“The same could be said about you,” Abraham chimes in, “You should’ve stayed with Gabe, kid. Look after your little sister.”

Carl opens his mouth to protest, but Glenn cuts in before he can even begin to object.

“He is looking after her,” Glenn says smoothly, “The same way we’re all looking out for Alexandria’s best interest by doing this.”

“And what exactly is the plan anyway? Do we even have one?” Sasha asks incredulously, “It’d be pretty damn stupid to go into this blind, don’t you think?”

“We’re going back to Hilltop first,” Rick states from behind the wheel, “We need Andy, and we need Jesus. Once we get there, we can strategize, and we’ll head for Negan’s base after nightfall.”

“We can attack them in their sleep,” Michonne adds matter of factly, “It’s the best way to approach this.”

“It’s going to be the only way to approach this,” Aaron repudiates, “There’s no taking them all on at once. We’ll have to be stealthy about this, right?”

“Absolutely,” Abraham booms, “It’s dirty as hell, sure, but Michonne hit the nail on the head. We bushwhack these sons of bitches while they’re fast asleep. They won’t know what hit them.”

“Seems like that’s going to be the only option. Like Aaron said, the only advantage we really have is stealth,” Rick says, his gaze affixed on Michonne. “We’ll run it by Andy, see what he thinks. Jesus, too.”

Daryl summarizes that garnering Jesus’ consultation would be an incredibly astute decision if the area of expertise was stealth.

“That, and the blind faith that these idiots are idiots,” Abraham annexes.

Sasha lets out a taut laugh.

“Obviously, they’re not idiots. At least, not all of them,” Rosita interjects. “They know what to say, and what to do to intimidate. They’re motivated too.”

“So are we,” Glenn admonishes, “That counts for something.”

Suddenly the engine putters.

“Shit,” Rick hisses, “This can’t be good.”

The RV comes to a halt.

“What’s happening?” Maggie asks. Everyone looks to Rick in the driver’s seat.

“I have no idea,” Rick says to himself more than anyone else, “The check engine lights on.”

“Fuck,” Abraham breathes. He pats the seat, and looks at the passengers around him, “Alright, let’s check it out then.”

They all file out of the RV as Rick and Michonne pop open the hood. Smoke pours out into their faces, and up into the sky.

“You were right,” Michonne says with a deep sigh, “This ain’t good.”

Abraham comes up behind the two and peers inside. He begins to fiddle with the motor.

“I can help you if you need it,” Daryl suggests, “I think it’s overheated.”

“That, or the radiator hose is busted,” Abraham replies, rising up from his bent position over the engine. He rubs his palms against his jeans, “I can’t tell if the thermostat is working, or not. Assuming it is, and assuming the radiator hose is functioning, then Daryl’s right. It’s overheated.” 

“Then it needs water,” Rick concludes.

“Yes, sir that is the temporary fix. We let the motor cool down, and then we can add water, which should get us to Hilltop at least.”

“Well, that’s great, but we don’t have any water,” Sasha responds, “We only brought firearms, and ammunition for said firearms.”

“We need to get out of here,” Rick says, his attention on the forest surrounding them. He’s surveying every inch of their environment, and Daryl knows why.

Currently, they’re sitting ducks.

“Okay, okay,” Glenn says, his hands displayed in front of him, and his eyes shut. He opens them to look at Rick, “What if we go look for water? There has to be at least a puddle, or- or, a creek, or something.”

“That could work,” Abraham says, looking towards Rick, “Do we have the time?”

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go on foot? We can’t sit here like this,” Carl argues.

“We don’t have a choice,” Maggie tells him, “Carrying all these weapons? All the way to Hilltop? It’d be nightfall before we got there.”

“I’ll go looking for water,” Daryl offers, “Ya’ll stay here. I should be able to find some easy enough. Like Glenn said, there’s bound to be something somewhere close. Plus, we have to wait, anyways.”

“Yep,” Abraham summarizes, “Can’t add water if the motor ain’t cooled first.”

“I’ll go with you,” Maggie says, “You can’t go by yourself.”

Aaron nods, “Let me come too,” he says, “I know these surroundings fairly well. I used to scout this area for Alexandria.”

Glenn grazes Maggie’s wrist, “Are you sure-?”

“Yes,” she says with calm resiliency, “Daryl doesn’t need to go alone. C’mon, Aaron,” she says, looking in the man’s direction.

“Are ya’ll sure?” Daryl asks. He’s almost positive that leaving the scene is safer than dwelling in it, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be dangerous on his end, too.

“We don’t have time to talk about it,” Maggie shoots at him, “Rosita, hand us a gun.”

Rosita, closest to the RV, hops inside, and returns to Maggie with her arms full of firepower. There’s an empty canteen dangling by a strap on her forearm.

She feeds a hand gun, and the canteen to Aaron. Maggie is gifted with an assault rifle. Daryl holds fast to the AR-15 already in his hands. 

“Be careful,” Rick says solemnly, his eyes locked on Maggie, “And hurry back. Ya’ll don’t need to be out there any more than we need to be sitting here.”

Maggie nods, and turns to Glenn.

“I’ll see you soon,” she says with a determined smile, her hand moving to squeeze his.

Glenn’s eyes resonate with apprehension, but still he smiles back at her.

“See you soon,” he whispers.

She turns to face Daryl, and says, “Let’s go.”

The three of them trudge through the forest, Aaron leading the way.

“Let’s head east,” Aaron says, a hint of consternation in his voice.

“You know this for sure?” Maggie questions.

“No,” Aaron says mulishly, “I can’t guarantee it, but I remember a creek nearby. Vaguely.”

“All these woods can look the same, man,” Daryl probes, reiterating Maggie’s concern, “Are you sure you’ve even set foot around here before?”

Aaron stops, and turns to view them both. “No, I’m not positive about anything, but I refused to let you go alone. Either of you,” he stresses, glancing between them both. “Now let’s put our heads together, and find some as quickly as we can.”

Daryl looks at Maggie, and her eyes are full of both hope, and trust. He can’t decide if that’s a good, or bad thing.

They both give Aaron an air of approval, and the three venture on.

After a spell of aimless walking, Daryl compels himself to say to Maggie what he has longed to say to her all day.

“I think you were right,” he says abruptly.

She looks up at him, scanning his face. After an instant, she asks, “When?”

Daryl sturdies the rifle resting in his palms, “About waiting.” He shakes his head, “This is real bad. Something about it, it ain’t right.”

Aaron’s hand springs up, and his head turns to concentrate like a bloodhound on a potent scent.

“Do you two hear that? It sounds like a… babbling. This way,” Aaron motions to the left with the hand he had elevated. “Oh my god, I think it is,” he says emphatically, a grin spreading across his face.

He goes after the sound, ducking into a thicket of overgrowth. Daryl makes after him, but Maggie catches his forearm.

“Hey,” she says quickly, “It’s okay. We’re gonna make it. I know that.”

They both hear the sound of a struggle at the same time, and their guns raise on instinct. They follow behind Aaron’s path into the overgrowth, and come out the other end.

What they see shouldn’t be surprising.

There’s a man, and Daryl knows his face well. Well enough to know that the burn across his face is fresh. His arm is secured around Aaron, and he’s holding a knife to the defenseless man’s throat. There’s two more men behind Dwight with assault rifles positioned in their direction.

Aaron’s eyes are apologetic. The canteen lies useless by his feet.

“Ain’t you fucked with me enough, man?” Daryl yaps, “Put him down.”

Dwight laughs, a smug dominance in the circumstances, “Well, see, Negan isn’t too happy with you all. In fact, I think he’s had enough.”

Daryl scowls, “Shit, I thought you were ugly before. I guess Negan’s treating you well.”

“Shut up,” Dwight retaliates, “You’re not really in a position to be talking down to me, Daryl.”

“Who the hell are you?” Maggie growls.

“I’m the guy who stole your friend here’s crossbow, and I think your motorcycle, too. Ain’t that right, Daryl?”

Maggie grimaces, “Oh, that prick.”

“Put your fucking weapons down, or we shoot,” the man to the right of Dwight barks, “We won’t ask again.”

Daryl contemplates taking aim at the malign bastard manhandling his friend, but he knows the saviors. As soon as his finger twitches on the trigger, Aaron’s throat will be opened, and his body will be utilized as a shield against Daryl’s spray of bullets. He can’t read minds, but Maggie seems to be radiating the same inference.

He puts his hands up, and Maggie accompanies him in surrender. They both lay their weapons down sluggishly.

“That’s good,” Dwight praises, as the two men behind him gather up their guns. He tosses Aaron into the dirt as soon as the weapons are retrieved. “Mark, Connor, take the girl, and this one,” he motions to Aaron by his feet. “Put them in the van.”

One of the saviors makes their way over to Maggie while the other wrestles Aaron up off the ground. They drag them both away as Dwight waltzes up to Daryl, sliding a hand gun out of the cusp of his pants.

Daryl has felt powerless before, but this instance will be historic.

He positions it at Daryl, and yells back at the two men hauling his companions to a nearby vehicle.

“Wait up for me,” he commands of them, “I’ve got some unfinished business with this one.”

“Make it quick,” one responds, “And you heard Negan, he wants them alive.”

“I heard Negan,” Dwight patronizes, his head spinning to look at his comrade, “Go on.”

They look at Dwight with unbridled skepticism, but procced to the van regardless.

Dwight faces Daryl, his eyes fixated to the left as he listens to the dissipating footsteps. The gun in his hands remains staunch.

Finally, his eyes lock with Daryl.

“You remember that guy who wanted to escape? The guy you tried to help?” He questions firmly. The gratification which formally plagued his voice has now drained away.

“Pathetic then, and you’re pathetic now,” Daryl spits.

Dwight promptly bows his body to stare at Daryl, the gun in his hand hangs loosely at his side.

“Hey, listen to me. I’m still that guy. You remember that, I’m still that guy, Daryl.”

Daryl holds Dwight’s gaze.

He slams his head as hard as possible into the cranium of the man across him.

Dwight grunts, and falls onto his back. Daryl scrambles for the gun in his hands, but Dwight centers his attention quick enough to slam the gun against Daryl’s temple with force. 

As Daryl falls back, he turns his body upwards and attempts to kick Dwight’s hand free of the gun, but Dwight manages to scramble to his knees. He flings the hand holding the gun away from Daryl, and shoves his foot away.

Daryl sees Dwight aim the gun, and then he sees blood flying through the air. 

His body slams down against the forest floor with a thud. His ears are ringing, and he discerns without the process of registering these events that there is a wet substance coating his neck, and face.

He deciphers the sound of his own strained breathe, and the crunch of leaves below Dwight’s feet as he walks closer. All he sees is the saw tooth outline of leaves, still clinging to the tree limbs above him. 

Dwight’s face comes into view.

“You’re going to thank me for this later,” Dwight screams, his nose dripping blood.

He has to be screaming, Daryl can’t hear anything but ringing and the elevated tone of Dwight’s voice. 

“You remember I’m still that guy, Daryl. You tried to save my life, and now I’m trying to save yours,” he continues emphatically.

Daryl releases a sharp yelp as Dwight bends down, and undertakes the task of muscling him up onto his feet.

The pain Daryl feels is excruciating. His neck feels too loose to control, and his vision is shifted down to his own body. He watches his own blood run through the creases in his hands.

“Fuck,” Dwight sibilates, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He drops Daryl, and his body crumples. Dwight gathers the injured man’s feet in his hands, and begins dragging him.

Daryl blacks out after five feet of torture.

  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  


“Daryl,” someone is crying. They’re repeating his name like a prayer.

“Please god, Daryl, oh my god,” the voice chokes, “You gotta wake up, Daryl.”

His eyes creek open, but everything is dark. A soft, shaking hand is on his face.

“Daryl, you got to wake up,” the voice squeaks, “We’re gonna be okay. I promised you that, you hear me? We’re gonna be okay. It’s alright, just talk to me, Daryl. Please,” the voice drags, emphasizing every desperate plea of, “Please, please, please.”

“Maggie,” he manages, the fingers of his left hand flexing haphazardly. They’re numb, but they’re functional.

A hand pats his chest, and feels it’s way down to his fingers, giving them something to grip onto. “Daryl,” a deeper voice says, “It’s Aaron. I’m here, I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

“Thank god,” Maggie breathes raggedly, “Oh, thank god.”

“Where-?” Daryl coughs, and it gives cessation to any more locution he may have desired to convey to his friends. A slippery film fills and covers his throat, and it threatens carelessly to spill past his lips.

“A van,” Maggie utters, “Stay still, honey. Just sit still, and stay with me.” Her hand clamps against his forehead, and she sighs with a sob. “You feel okay, you feel okay,” she repeats to herself. Her voice is cracking at every corner as she says vehemently, “Don’t be scared. We’re here, Daryl.”

They stay huddled together. The warmth of Maggie is to his right, her hand trembling its way through his hair. Aaron is bunched to his left, his palms almost crushing Daryl’s hand. They hear the van start, and feel it chug into motion. They drive for what feels like an eternity, their puling the only definite sound.

They come to a precipitous stop, and Daryl whimpers as it forces his body to thump against the floorboard. There’s rattling as the passengers step out, and push the doors closed behind them.

The side door slides open, and a flashlight’s harsh rays flood into the opaque space. When their eyes adjust, the outline of Dwight is clear.

“Is he gonna make it?” Dwight solicits, a thick mask of callousness draped over his disquietude.

“He’s shivering, he’s cold,” Maggie bellows, “You took his fucking jacket! He needs something!”

“Hey, watch your fucking tone bitch,” a man snarls, “We can shoot you in the fucking chest, too.”

“Do you want him to get to Negan alive?” Aaron appeals, “Because he’s not going to make it at this rate.” Aaron inhales deeply, and releases a tremulous breathe. “Just something to keep him warm,” he grits, “He’s blacking out.”

Daryl knows, somewhere inside himself, that who they’re speaking of is him. All he can compute is the carriage of the voices around him. The meaning, the reasoning; it’s lost on him. His brain can comprehend the words, but refuses to manifest to him what they mean.

All that really makes sense is tones, and he’s come to understand from those alone that the situation is dire.

“Oh, god,” Dwight puffs, “Okay, alright, Mark?”

“What? You want me to patch him up, or some shit? I’d rather put a bullet between his eyes. We can tell Negan the little shit stain never even existed.”

Dwight scoffs, “Yeah, that’ll go great for you, man. Get me a fucking jacket or something. I think there’s like, a blanket, or something in the car I drove over. Grab it.”

Mark massages the base of his neck, as he moseys his way over to Connor, “You heard that?”

“Yeah, I’ll grab it,” Connor begrudges.

“Check the trunk,” Dwight calls over, “I’m pretty sure it’s in the trunk.”

Connor pops the trunk of a nearby car, and then bangs it shut. He returns to the van with a blanket, caked with dried mud. He tosses it carelessly into the van. Maggie gathers it up as it lands on her, and coaxes Daryl forward with Aaron’s assistance.

“Lean forward, just a little,” she begs softly, her mouth pressed against his temple, “I know it hurts.”

Daryl grimaces, as Maggie, her arms wrapped tightly around his chest, eases him up. Aaron slips the grimy material around his shoulders, and helps to lay him back down.

“That better?” She asks, a weak smile breaks across her face, “Warmer?”

Daryl nods. He doesn’t know what he’s bobbing his head for, but he wants Maggie’s panic to dissipate. It doesn’t.

“Let’s get back on the road. The rest of them are on foot, and heading into position,” Connor declaims, a casual smirk on his face, “We wouldn’t want them to miss a second of it.”

Dwight nods, “Yeah, alright. Let’s go,” he says heading towards the car parked a few feet away.

Mark gives the three of them a repugnant twist of his fingers, waving them goodbye.

Then, the door is slammed closed again.

“Aaron,” Maggie sputters into the pitch blackness surrounding them, “They have the rest of them.”

“Yeah,” Aaron says, swallowing hard, “I think we’re going to die.”

Maggie begins to cry, her body jumping with each snivel. She situates her head against Daryl’s chest, and her tears smear onto his skin.

“I knew, I knew, I knew,” Maggie’s lips mouth against the cotton of Daryl’s shirt, “I knew, oh god.”

“Maggie,” Aaron blubbers, “We have to pull it together.”

After a dragging minute, Maggie lifts herself off of Daryl, and wipes her tears. “You’re right,” she grinds out defiantly, “They don’t deserve to see us this way.”

Aaron nods, “We have to pull it together. I want to die with some pride.”

Maggie and Aaron’s hands fold into each other’s on top of Daryl’s heaving torso.

“I want our deaths to be the biggest, ‘fuck you,’ in history,” a nervous, but fervent laugh bursts out of her, “Okay?”

Aaron laughs too, and agrees, “Okay, okay…okay.”

They look at each other without being able to see a thing.

The van screeches to a halt.

They hear an ominous chorus of noise. It’s a swan song.

“Whistling?” Aaron wonders aloud.

Maggie stays quiet.

Then the door flies open, and a flare of headlights crashes in.

“Dwight,” a man barks with composure, “Haul them out.”

“Right,” Dwight says, Daryl’s bow in his hands. He tosses it over his shoulder, and pulls Daryl out first. Daryl stumbles to the ground, and Maggie struggles out by herself to help hoist him up.

She gasps, mouth agape, as the scene before her becomes more distinguished.

A swarm of Saviors are all gathered, as steady, and plentiful as the trees towering above. They are circled around her like sharks. There is hundreds of these men, all patiently slouching, bored and waiting like children anticipating recess. In front of her, everyone she accompanied on the RV is on their knees in a row.

Maggie knows she’s entered an arena, and the games are about to begin.

A pair of gruff hands lifts her off her feet, and drags her to a position beside Rick. She loses her grip of Daryl, but Dwight grapples him up and forces his slack body to a spot beside her. Aaron is shoved down beside him.

Daryl feels his stomach flipping, and his eyes are daring to shut.

“Are we all accounted for?” A voice drones.

Daryl slips into unconsciousness.

Maggie squeezes his hand, and he forces himself back into reality.

“Which one of you pricks is the leader?” A rich, but daunting voice inquires.

“It’s this one,” A man says quick, but hesitantly, “He’s the guy.”

There’s a brief, but long awaited sigh released from the man who posed the question.

“Hi,” he begins, a subdued fury in his voice. “You’re Rick, right? I’m Negan… and I do not appreciate you killing my men.”

Daryl lifts his head to study the figure looming over them. Beneath the glaze of his perspective, he can see him.

He can see Negan.

A wave of nausea pounds against him, and he ducks his head lethargically, and focuses on staying coherent. He has to stay upright.  
He concentrates on Maggie’s hand grasping his.

He knows that a voice is carrying on, but he can’t center on the words. It’s filtering into his brain as a garbled string of various sounds.

Rick’s howling yanks him back into some semblance of animation.

“Just stop this!” He roars.

Then it all starts to go white. Daryl mostly sees what’s transpiring before him from behind a giant, pulsating dandelion.

The end of a bat is positioned at his face, and he is convinced in that moment that death longs to embrace him.

Jesus’ words flash in his head like the bulbs of the 24 hour sign in front of his brother’s favorite bar. They drape themselves over every ideology he’s ever held like Beth hung limply from his arms. They slice through his pride like a sword across a brave old man’s throat.

He is going to die, not screaming or pleading, but bleeding out into the soft earth. He’ll sink below the dirt, and every stain he’s collected will be cleansed through the tears of those he loved, and defended.

Then, he will be forgotten.

He meets Negan’s jovial glare.

It is fitting, he thinks, that his first, and only kiss would be upon the face of death. Imperiously, he stares into the coulee before him, and resolves to hold the glare as he is tucked into an eternal grave. It’s fitting, he thinks, that he dies as impetuously as possible.

The executioner passes him by with a cavalier swing. Daryl feels a pang of disenchantment.

“Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy’s other eye out and feed it to his father. And then we’ll start,” Negan instructs routinely. “You can breathe, you can blink,” he states, humored with his own practiced rendition of the regulations, “You can cry.”

“Hell,” he breathes, “You’re all going to be doing that.”

Negan’s bat swings down onto his victim of choice with an earth-shattering crack.

All Daryl knows is Maggie is screaming the name of her husband beside him.

Daryl succumbs to the overwhelming burden to keel over, and then it’s as dark as the night sky.

Every ungodly noise he’s able to hear is a parting gift into his own uncertain fate.


	4. Solus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I wanted to get this out sooner, but it took me a while to write. It was one of my hardest chapters, and I scapped my fisrt version of it altogether. Hopefully, it resonates with you guys! A quick warning that this is an emotional chapter, and that it is in the aftermath of Glenn's death. However, there are no graphic depictions of death, or violence, so don't worry. Just some emotional turmoil. As always, feedback is a highlight of my writing, and all forms of it are welcomed with open arms! Enjoy!

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# Chapter 4

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# Solus

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“Holy fuck,” Negan declares, enunciating every syllable with drive, “That was exhilarating, huh?” He lifts the instrument of carnage into the air with a clinical ease. It’s drenched with gore, and leaks down the hilt onto his sable gloves.

Maggie is fully aware that she is wailing louder than a thousand glass vases plummeting onto a hard wood floor. 

She really, really doesn’t care.

If Negan insists she kneel before him, rendering her anatomy useless, the least she could do was make her voice a lament for the man he had slain.

A lament for her husband.

She knew, better than anyone else, what happens when someone you love dies. She knew that her grief was on a tight schedule, and pulling herself together wasn’t even her decision. Concern would peer over her walls of distress, and she would no longer be a person, but a topic up for discussion. What will we do without Maggie? Her essence would be broken down, and debated.

She would no longer be Maggie: an asset to this group, but Maggie: a liability to this group. Perhaps she would be offered the tired speech, one that she had offered to others.

“We have to keep living,” they’ll say to her, “We have to live for those who died.”

And now, those words that left her lips will be regurgitated back to her. All along knowing that when she said them, they were a lie. They will lie to her. They will tell her that there is purpose, and reason to all of this chaos.

Maggie knows now there is no purpose. There is no reason. It is all senseless, and propelled by bloodshed. Maggie thinks maybe this wouldn’t be so hard, if she, too, could thrive on death.

“I swear to god, the funniest fucking thing is that this did not have to happen,” Negan swings his bat, and a spatter of blood slaps Maggie in the face. Every word that leaves his mouth feels like a cruel taunt, and most likely, it is. He props his beloved contrivance over his shoulder. “This little bag of sniveling shit decided it was a good idea to fuck with me,” Negan points down at Rick, “This pasty fucker waged a dick measuring contest with the biggest dick left alive.” Negan shakes his head, “Pretty fucking stupid.”

“Anyways,” Negan draws, facing his back to the row of petrified survivors, “I took the liberty of fixing your van for you because I am a good guy. I really would like to get along with you dumb fucks.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Rick slurs, then louder, “I’m going to kill you.”

Negan stops dead in his tracks, and swings back around to glare down at Rick. There’s a faint smile breaking across his face.

“You’re going to kill me?” Negan asks sweetly, “Well, why don’t you stand up, and kill me then?” Negan outstretches his hand which grips Lucille, and looks at one of the men who tossed Maggie out of the van, “Hold her, and be a fucking gentlemen.”

The man takes the bat in his hands like a priceless artifact.

Negan crouches down to Rick’s level, and seizes the man’s jaw into his hand. “Honestly, Rick, you act as if I haven’t just murdered everyone’s favorite Asian-American member of your posse. I mean, shit, you’re acting as if I don’t have the absolute fucking power to bash every single one of your best friend’s skulls in. Why is that?” Negan waits for a response. Rick is stoic, but silent.

“Let me guess. You still, still after all this,” Negan motions with his free hand, “All this bullshit I just put you through, the energy I wasted fucking annihilating that kid, that you have an advantage over me. Is that it?” Negan releases Rick’s face, and slaps him. Rick’s head jerks to the side as Negan’s hand makes impact. His head lingers there, staring at the ground, and not at the man in front of him. “You are such a fucking power-hungry douche, man. I mean, you really need to reevaluate your situation. You’re so fucked, it’s like, painful.”

Negan rises, then places his foot against Rick’s face, and shoves him to the ground.

Rick’s eyes are glossy, and his body is rigid. He stays down.

“See the position you’re in right fucking now?” Negan booms, “You need to stay that way. You’re my fucking bitch now, you lay on your back, you make your people lay on their backs, and you fucking take it.” Negan takes a step back, and claps his hands together. “Is this becoming easier to understand, now? Or do I need to fucking murder someone else?”

The area is still.

“Good! Because I really don’t enjoy taking valuable-ish lives,” Negan throws his arm back out, and grasps repeatedly with his fingers, “Lucille. Where is she?”

The man who the bat was handed off to scurries back up, and returns it to Negan.

“Awesome, now let’s get the fuck out of here. This atmosphere is so fucking depressing.” All Negan has to do is release a quick, sharp whistle, and a twirl of his pointer finger, and the Saviors are migrating back to their vehicles. Negan clomps up the steps of The Saviors' RV, but turns as he’s propping the flimsy door open. “Oh, we’ll be back in a week to collect half our shit,” he mentions, “But, for now, adios!”

Maggie is trembling. Her body is radiating sheer rage, and adrenaline is coursing through her veins. As soon as the last mode of transportation steers out of the dirt, she pulls herself over to Glenn.

Her husband is unrecognizable. He’s not her husband anymore. All she can do is let her hands hover over the mess of what once was human structure. She feels the legs of her pants begin to sop up the amber fluid which pools around her. Faintly, she registers the pressure of two arms around her waist. Aaron’s voice is warm against the small of her back as he says her name with such pity it makes her ill.

The overwhelming sensation to shove him away is pushing at her, but she remains inanimate. The only sounds escaping her are her laborious gasps for air, which seem to be manifesting into guttural sobs.

“Dad?” Carl whispers, and Michonne snatches him up into her arms, and holds him close.

“It’s okay,” she repeats to him, her face buried in his hair.

Rick stays recumbent. His expression is adrift.

Sasha is weeping quietly, her face stained with tears. Abraham reaches around her body, and pulls her into a tight grip. Her hands rest themselves against his forearms weakly.

Rosita stares at them, and for the first time her body feels as delicate as it looks.

“Abe?” she imparts, a feeble noise replacing her voice.

Abraham doesn’t move his head to look at her. Sasha hangs her head, and mumbles an unintelligible string of words to herself.

Rosita looks away. She knows, somehow, that Abraham is no longer hers. Her hair hangs loosely around her face, shielding her like heavy curtains. She dreams, very briefly, of disappearing behind her dark locks, and hiding away until the world reverts back to some pretense of regularity. She is gaping at nothing when Daryl comes into view.

He is absolutely unconscious. The training Pete had instilled within her which felt like so many lifetimes ago, now shifts itself to the forefront of her mind. She drags herself over to him, possibly on instinct to salvage what was left of her faith in man, to check his pulse. She removes the blanket around his shoulders, and it is revealed to her the large quantities of blood he has lost.

Rick pushes himself up, and Carl breaks free of Michonne to embrace him.

“Glenn,” Carl whimpers, and Rick shakes his head.

“It’s going to be okay,” he assures his son, stroking his hair, “We’re going to be okay.”

His words prick Maggie’s ears, and her hearts thumps faster in her chest. Everything was not going to be okay, and she understands just how repulsed she is of all the lies.

This was not okay.

Maggie ceases her tumult of pathetic tears, and shrugs out of Aaron’s hold viciously.

“Maggie,” Aaron beckons, but his words fall into the void between them. She bursts from the ground, and rushes over to Rick with the ferocity of wild beast.

“Maggie,” Rick croaks as Maggie barges nearer him, but it’s useless. Rick’s voice is an insult, and her name being tossed around like a bargaining chip only adds to the slight that is this calamity.

Her hands slam against his shoulders, and rips him from Michonne, and Carl’s arms. They're both alarmed, they all look alarmed, and Maggie is glad. She wants, and even furthermore, she needs for them to stomach the throes of death.

This was not okay.

She covets nothing more in those agonizing moments than Rick’s blood to stain her hands, and his worthless entreaties to ring in her ears.

Maggie hurls Rick backwards with a grunt, and Rick lands on his back into the dirt. Her body crashes down on top of his, and her fist rams into the side of his jaw like it is second nature. She forces out a primal scream, as Rick’s head is driven into the hard dirt.

She punches him once for her father, and twice for Beth.

“Dad!” Carl yelps weakly, but Michonne holds him in her arms.

“Stop this, Maggie,” she says, but Maggie isn’t listening.

The only thing Maggie is listening for is Rick’s trademark appeals. Her fists dare them to make an appearance, but they stay hidden. It only fuels her anger.

“You did this to me you son of a bitch!” Maggie shrieks, her fists balling up into his shirt, so that he can pay close attention to the words she has to say.

It is Rick’s turn to listen.

“This is your fault, your fucking fault!” She continues, spit flying from her mouth, “You let my father die! You let Beth die! And now, Glenn is dead! I’m going to kill you!” She then resumes her beating.

“Maggie, quit this!” Michonne barks, but Maggie’s knuckles cracking against Rick’s face drowns her out. Michonne stands, and unsheathes her katana. “Maggie!”

Rick doesn’t fight against the onslaught of Maggie’s rage, but she is too consumed with purpose to feel the nagging of guilt.

“C’mon!” She screams, her palm slamming into his throat, urging a spiel of sympathy. “Tell me why I shouldn’t fucking kill you?”

Michonne’s katana taps the back of her head.

“Maggie,” Michonne commands, “Get off of him. Now.”

Maggie turns to face Michonne, Rick’s shirt still crushed between her fingers. She is aware of the saliva at the corners of her mouth, the snot dripping from her nose, and blood spattered across her face, and hands. She leers at Michonne like a rabid animal.

She squeezes her eyes shut, and gulps down several large breathes. 

She could not kill Rick. She should not kill Rick. The rationality she ordinarily held so dear returns to her in waves. 

She tumbles off of Rick, and into the dirt, her hands fitting themselves to the side of her head.

Negan killed Glenn, and she almost killed Rick.

“Rick?” Michonne beckons, “Rick, are you okay?”

Rick’s nose is adorned with a layer of blood, and his mouth leaks the carmine liquid as well.

“You shouldn’t have stopped her,” he mumbles.

Rosita, realizing the dust has now settled, pipes up.

“Daryl needs help,” she recommends strongly, her voice a squeak, “We really need to go to Alexandria. Now.”

Abraham steadies himself, still struck by the abundance of events.

He comprehends Rosita’s pleads, then props himself up, his hand extending to Sasha’s back to ensure she is stable. 

He makes his way over to Maggie, then lowers himself to make eye contact with her.

Her hands stay tight to her head, and her face is scrunched in pent eccentricity. He allows his hand to graze her shoulder like he would a stray dog.

“Maggie,” he begins sympathetically, “Let Rosita take you, and Daryl to Alexandria. I’ll take care of his body, but you need to think about your baby. Take the RV,” he suggests.

“I can’t,” she barely enunciates, “I can’t leave him.”

“Maggie,” Aaron coos, stepping past Abraham.

He kneels in front of her, and takes her hands into his.

“You will remember Glenn,” he says with a prudent potency, “You will not remember this. You need to remember Glenn, his spirit, his mind, not his body. Not this. We have to leave here. We have to leave this here.”

Maggie nods limply. She could never forget this night, but Aaron wasn’t wrong. She shouldn’t obsess over what was now just a corpse.

Abraham is still shaken, but he moves his head up and down, “Good.”

“I’ll help you,” Michonne offers, her hand holding Rick’s, who is still situated on the ground where Maggie left him. “Aaron, you should go with her.”

Maggie agrees, she needs Aaron.

“I already am,” Aaron responds, his arms encircling her, “C’mon, honey.”

Sasha notices Rosita struggling to lift Daryl’s body. She stumbles up, and positions herself on the other side of her.

“I’ll help,” she states simply, and Rosita nods. The two women tote him to a cot in the back of the RV.

Aaron helps Maggie into the passenger seat, and shuts the door for her.

Sasha and Rosita emerge from the back of the RV. Sasha glances at them both, then walks over to Abraham.

Aaron hands the keys to Rosita, “These were on the passenger seat,” he says, “You drive. I’m going to make sure Daryl is okay.”

“He’s not,” Rosita says in a sigh, “His pulse is slow. I think he might be in shock. That, or he’s passed out from the pain.”

“We better go then,” Aaron says in a rush, slipping past her to climb into the back.

Michonne rises from Carl’s side, as the young boy is left under the care of Abraham, and Sasha momentarily. She rushes over to Rosita as she’s walking in front of the RV to the driver’s side.

“Hey,” she says, “We’ll meet you at Alexandria when we’re done. Make sure he gets there.”

Rosita nods, “Okay.”

Rosita positions herself behind the steering wheel, and starts the engine with a chug. She puts the massive machine into reverse, then peels out of the dirt road.

“We should’ve known Negan wasn’t going to be taken down that easily,” Aaron says to a blank, and motionless Daryl. “Maybe there was no way of knowing… maybe that’s the point.” Aaron brushes the sweaty cluster of hair over Daryl’s face aside. He squeezes the man’s hand, and assures himself more than anyone, “You’re going to be alright.”

When they reach Alexandria, Spencer opens the gate for them. They swerve into the entrance, and screech to an abrupt stop.

Rosita climbs out of the recreational vehicle with urgency, slamming the door behind her.

“Denise!” She calls, “Where’s Denise? We need Denise!”

Carol bolts from the doorway of an Alexandrian home a few blocks away, and Morgan joins her.

Rosita flings open the door of the mobile home, and runs inside it.

“What’s going on?” Carol urges, “What happened?”

“Where’s Rick?” Morgan asks.

Spencer holds the door open for Rosita and Aaron as they carry Daryl’s body out.

“Oh my god,” Carol breathes, her eyes on Daryl, “What the hell happened?”

“Negan,” Rosita snaps, “Where’s Denise?”

Carol helps Rosita and Aaron tote Daryl to Denise’s makeshift medical facilities. When they burst through the door, Denise springs into action.

“Jesus,” she says, her body already in motion, “What happened? Gunshot?”

“I don’t know,” Rosita blurts, “I wasn’t with him when it happened!”

“Aaron,” Denise directs, “Grab me a table. We gotta stop the bleeding.”

Aaron sprints over, and wheels a gurney over to Denise. Rosita and Carol dump is body onto the surface as gently as possible.

Carol’s eyes drill into Rosita, “Tell me everything that happened out there.”

“Negan,” Rosita says, after securing Daryl onto the operating counter, “He caught us on the road.”

“I’m going to get Maggie,” Aaron informs them, rushing back out the door.

“Where is Rick? Where is everyone?” Carol questions, her glare still fixated on Rosita with a burning intensity, disregarding Aaron in his entireity.

“They’re burying Glenn,” Rosita stumbles with her words, “They… Negan… he beat him… to death.”

Carol steps back, her hands sluggishly moving to her temples.

“I don’t know what happened to Daryl,” she explains, “The RV broke down. Maggie, Aaron, and him went looking for water to repair it. After a while, the rest of us got nervous. Glenn said he’d wait at the RV for them, and for the rest of us to go ahead. Try and make it to Hilltop on foot. We did but,” Rosita sighs. “It wasn’t long after his men jumped us on the road. We took out a few of them but…” Rosita shakes her head.

“Why did he let the rest of you go?” Carol wonders.

“He lined us all up. Said… killing Glenn was punishment, or some shit,” Rosita sibilates, “He doesn’t want to kill us. He wants us to work for him. Gather supplies for him, and give him half of everything we have. That’s what he said.”

“And what’d you say?” Carol asks.

“We didn’t say anything,” Rosita counters, “There was nothing to say.”

Carol is quiet for a moment. The only sound is Denise patching up Daryl’s shoulder with focused vigor.

“When is he coming back? For what he thinks is his?” Carol looks onward, her hand balled into a fist, and resting against her mouth.

“A week,” Rosita responds, her voice distant despite her close physical proximity to Carol, “At least, that’s what he said.”

“Then we have a week to prepare for retaliation,” Carol informs her.

Aaron rushes back inside, this time Maggie clinging to him.

“Guys,” he says frantically, “Maggie’s in pain. I think it’s the baby. I don’t want her to…” He snorts, and draws in a panicked breath, “Oh god, what do we do?”

Maggie makes a sharp, gasping noise, and holds tight to Aaron.

Denise looks up over her glasses, and tilts back up from her work with Daryl to look at Maggie.

“Fuck,” she curses, “Isn’t there an OBGYN at Hilltop?”

“You wanna go there now?” Rosita gapes, “What about Daryl?”

“I’m saying we should go there for both of them,” Denise clarifies with dismay, “He needs drugs, and he needs bandages, and we are alarming low on both.” She points towards Maggie, “She is under momentous stress right now. She could lose the baby,” Denise’s arms fly out, and motion around the room, “This place? It is not equipped for this shit.”

“I’ll take them,” Aaron declares, “Just give me directions to Hilltop, and I’ll go now.”

"Maggie is the only one who even knows how to get to Hilltop," Rosita argues, then she stands, “No, I’ll go with you. Denise, you’re coming, too.”

Denise looks at them both, “Okay, I’ll get Tara. She can come with me.”

“Help me get her to the RV,” Aaron pleads, and Denise hurries to his side. They both assist her out the door.

“You need me, too,” Carol offers, “Let me get a gun from—”

“No way,” Rosita insists, “No way in fucking hell. We have no idea the number of Saviors that could be out there. Tara can come with us for cover, but we are not leaving Alexandria unprotected.”

Carol blinks, and looks away. Then she approaches Rosita with a fatal serenity.

“You get him to Hilltop, and protect them,” she threatens, “Or I will personally reign hell on what’s left of your existence here.”

Rosita shakes her head, “That’s fair enough,” she motions with her head over to Daryl, “Let’s get him in the RV.”


	5. Sophrosyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! We finally get Jesus' POV! 
> 
> Thank you for all the magnificent kudos, and comments! I was speaking to someone on my tumblr page who was telling me how excited they were for my next chapter, and how they anticipated it, and it inspired me get this chapter out as soon as possible. I want everyone who clicks on this story to know how thankful I am to you. That you would give this fanfcition a chance to impress you is amazing in and of itself, and to then recieve comments, kudos, and bookmarks? It's incredible, and I hope I never let one reader down! 
> 
> Everyone who reads my work gives me motivation to keep writing, and hearing from all of you makes my day! At the end of the chapter, I'm going to leave my tumblr username, and I encourage any one to come and talk to me about my fic, the walking dead, or anything else you feel I could be of consultance of! As always, positive, and negative comments are always appreciated, and welcome, and my gratitude is continuously extended to all of you! Happy reading!

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# Chapter 5

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# Sophrosyne

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Jesus is not an emotional person. He supposes most survivors aren’t. Rationale isn’t just an advantage, but at this point, a necessity to staying alive.

Jesus’ motivations were simple: exist as long as possible. His tactics weren’t too convoluted either: be one step ahead. In this world, in the last, and even in the next, planning was the key to success. He would like more than anything to be organically authentic, but he usually ended up being meticulously orchestrated. He had come to embrace it.

People were enigmas. An individual could project a carefully crafted façade of themselves for years, dutifully committing to the role, only to let it drop on a whim. This was a misfortune for every party involved, as betrayal is the most stinging infliction. Jesus knows well enough the pain which comes from the rug being pulled from beneath you. The crash wasn’t avoidable, but wholly inevitable. It was unpleasant, and yet Jesus himself fell victim to the charade that was a counterfeit lifestyle.

Jesus despised the convoluted nature of humanity, and concomitantly admired it.

It was honesty that flashed like a neon sign around your neck, begging the world to take advantage of you. An exterior of subterfuge was a logical next step on the road to inner protection. He recognized this, and in this way, he found an appreciation for the mind, and capacity to eschew the undesirable aspects of life.

Being a fake could be beneficial.

In the same breath, he found it poisonous. It was cowardice that kept the individual from the liberation of integrity. Casting aside the drudgery of avoidance was an option for the strong, not the weak. The weak, instead, build for themselves their own mental cages, and then lock themselves inside it.

Jesus fully realizes that living a life as half of yourself is considered a disservice.

However, he considers espousing the darkest parts of himself as a disservice to who he wants to be.

So, yes, he is a coward. He smiles, when he longs to scream. He designed a veil of tranquility, and continues to keep himself at bay from that image. It wasn’t honorable, but it helped him make friends, and it helped him hold on. 

Jesus felt uncomfortable, of course, but the knowledge that he was not alone in this defense mechanism was a soothing reassurance that he was not yet psychotic.

Every man, and woman he had encountered had yet to lay all their cards on the table. Jesus was a fraud, he withheld his anger, his gloom, and his fear, but so did everybody else.

That is why Daryl Dixon was quite the intriguing prospect.

After all the nightly, pretentious unravelings, Jesus knew exactly what he was. He had no trouble figuring himself out from the beginning, and figuring others out wasn’t much harder. He had to adapt, and master that skill. Otherwise, staying one step ahead was a futile expectation of himself.

Jesus knew himself well, he knew his intentions, and he knew what he needed to do.

Daryl, on the other hand, had a keen eye for dismantling others, but little, to no bearing on himself. It was captivating.

When one ages, they learn the value of deception, much like Jesus did. Daryl had no earthly clue what that meant, or how to even go about learning its potential. Daryl either had a perfect life, or one so detrimental it left him unable to advance forward. Jesus assumed it was the latter.

He had observed Daryl since they met. The man took everything at face value, and it was magnificent. Jesus’ heart pounded at the sight of him. He was handsome, and plowed through situations. He had no need for games, and their fragile nature.

Jesus was relishing in his energy.

Daryl was the epitome of what he wanted to be: devoid of self-awareness.

He was, however, quite dangerous. It is difficult, which is saying the least, to love someone who does not know who they are, but Jesus felt confident enough. Daryl was someone he could study for a lifetime. He envisioned himself leading Daryl to the allure of love, and tumbling into it with him.

Then again, Jesus was easily carried away with himself. Ideas of grandeur were not uncommon to him. His fixations were as fleeting as he was, and Daryl was not an overnight success. It would take months to open him up, and by then Jesus could be dead and gone.

The thought was mesmerizing.

A knock on the door of his trailer sends him plummeting back to reality. He dog ears the page of his book he did not have the attention span to read, and tosses the novel gently onto his bed.

“Jesus,” Bertie greets him, “I hate to bother you. Could you ask Gregory something for me?”

“Sure,” Jesus responds, “What is it?”

“Well, those people, the ones from Alexandra, or wherever, they took a lot of food with them. The only thing they didn’t take was medical supplies. Their leader, Rick I think it was, he said they would come back for it.” Bertie shrugs, “Better for us, I guess. But what I’m wondering is, when are we going on another supply run? I know you organize these things, I just thought maybe you could mention something to Gregory about it.”

Jesus looks up, and nods, “I can do that, sure.”

“Thanks, Jesus,” she smiles, and then her face hardens, “I heard you’re going out there with them. Be careful,” she requests, “You’re the best out there, with those things. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Jesus manages a smile, “It would be a shame for me to die, yes.”

Bertie shakes her head, “I got to feed the chickens. I’ll see you around.”

He watches as Bertie clods away.

Jesus shuts the door behind himself, and pads back to his bed. He sits on the edge of the small mattress for a moment, his socked toes skating back and forth as he pushes his legs forward, and back. He contemplates there, his hands folded on his lap, the lunacy that is his current read.

He found the book in pitiful shape, disregarded and lonely in a home one morning while on a supply run. He didn’t make a habit of looting houses of their private possessions. Jesus felt that those remnants of a bygone life should stay buried, and lie still with the bodies who collected them so dutifully. Abandoned homes were a monument to those who used to live in them, and Jesus had no intention of vandalizing that sentiment.

That being said, every month he did indulge himself of a neglected bookshelf in some dilapidated structure. He figured he was a suitable bard, carrying on their memory through a shared admiration of the arts.

The bound pages of diversion were entitled, “Poets of the Romantic Age”. It wasn’t a usual suspect for Jesus, but he was captivated with intrigue. Perhaps a lack of fracas that particular day had left him feeling lofty, and explorative. Perhaps, he was merely aesthetically bemused by the swirling colors of the cover. Either way, he seized up the written tale, and tossed it into his bag, dust and all.

Keats was never a favorite of his. Pull away the lush depictions of life, and the soft optimism of one man, and where was the reader left? It was vapid in the most winsome way. Jesus wasn’t a fan, but he was fixated on a certain poem by the man.

He had read Endymion once, and that had seemed to be enough. Yet, here he sat, obsessing over what he initially perceived as a nonevent.

Endymion was a character, and a concept he found himself relating to. For all his cognizance, he still felt so entranced by the world he had sunken into.

In a way, he thought of Daryl, too. The real reason he had been beguiled with the man could almost certainly be attributed to his personal perceptions.

Daryl shunned his inner thoughts, and the truth of his identity until it faded from his mind, if only for a temporary stretch of time. Jesus antithetically hounded his own psychological stance, and preoccupied himself constantly with a way to counteract the bits and pieces he detested.

He stands abruptly with the book in hand. He resolves to the fact that Keats’ best attribute was his very pretty face, and not his flowery, feel good drudgery. He slides the book into the ledges above his bed, specifically designed for his written collection, with a brisk shove.

He steps into his boots, laces them to his feet, and then he is out the door.

Jesus did not like Gregory. He didn’t enjoy speaking to Gregory, and he didn’t enjoy working with Gregory. The man was a thorn in his side. 

Jesus was not a leader, and he had no aspirations to be one. Being a leader meant being committed, and commitment was not Jesus’ forte. Jesus felt a serene solace in being an aid, and assisting people in the way that really mattered. 

There were plenty of Gregory’s all over the world, but not everybody can provide the way he does. It was an internal boast of his to be an individual who was truly independent. Jesus had the skill to be alone, but he chose to integrate into Hilltop. Gregory was a hopeless fool, whose only competency was his manipulation. Jesus did not need to surround himself with others to survive, but Gregory did.

He slinks into the mansion without signaling his arrival with a knock. Jesus never gave warning before appearing. He found it, not only unnecessary, but vacuous. An element of surprise could open the door to crucial insight, and Jesus thrived off of intel.

“We can’t risk it,” he hears from Gregory’s office, and the voice belongs to the leader himself. Jesus smooths his body against the wall which leads into Gregory’s office. He taps his hand against the farthest reach of the wall, then quickly ducks past the slightly cracked doorway. He tucks himself beneath the staircase, and holds his breath.

“Did you hear that?” Gregory snaps, “Is someone outside?”

“I don’t—” another voice stutters. Jesus recognizes it as Andy.

“Well, look for Christ sakes,” Gregory whispers, “Nobody can know about this.” 

Jesus waits for the encompassing footsteps to tap past his hiding spot, and then back into the office.

“No, there’s not a soul out there,” Andy reports.

“Good, fuck,” Gregory curses, “These meds make me so god damn paranoid. But do you understand?”

There is no noise, and Jesus assumes that Andy does not understand.

“What about Jesus?” Andy breathes, barely audible to Jesus, “I mean, hell, what about me? What if Negan isn’t too excited about you selling them out?”

“I am not selling them out,” Gregory emphasizes, “I’m saving this community.”

“What if he kills Jesus, though? What if he kills me?”

There is a faint creak, and then soft padding. Jesus deduces that Gregory is inflicting upon Andy the oldest trick in the book. Stand from your seat, look deep in their eyes, and say every word like it’s a dying wish. Don’t forget to say their name for emphasis. Make it personal.

“Andy,” Gregory begins, “You know as well as I do these people stand no chance against Negan. What we have to hope for now, is that Negan’s gracious nature prevails, and we are returned to a normally scheduled programming. Negan trusts me again, and our people stop dying.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Andy asks lowly, “What about me?”

“What about you, Andy?” Gregory replies, “ We have to make sacrifices for the people we care about. You care about this place, well, so do I. I can’t guarantee Negan will spare you, or Jesus, but I have faith he will. Sometimes that’s all we have to go on.”

The room is still, and then there is a deep, wavering sigh.

“Okay,” Andy breathes, “Okay fine. I get it, I guess. I just… Jesus could be right… Negan is an asshole, and I think we should be trying to… well, I don’t know.”

“No, you don’t know,” Gregory rejoins, “Who is the leader here, Andy?”

More silence drifts through a small blink of time.

“Well?” Gregory prods.

“You,” Andy says with defeat, “It’s you—”

“But here you are,” Gregory ponders with the most blatant sarcasm he can portray, “Questioning me, and furthermore, questing my motives.” Gregory huffs, “You’re so worried about Jesus? Jesus brought them here,” he raises his voice, and continues, “If anyone deserves Negan’s… wrath, his anger, well, it’s him!”

“I’m sure I deserve it too, right? To die?” Andy quips, a rebellion rising in his intonation.

“Andy,” Gregory states with a staunch sympathy that makes Jesus sick, “I don’t appreciate this… attitude in you, but understand me clearly when I tell you that I do not believe any one of us deserves this sick, twisted game Negan decides to play. Son, simply enough, we are screwed, and when you are screwed, you have to make hard decisions.”

“I just think it should be harder. To put a life at risk like that,” Andy says beneath his breath, a hope for triumph now fading.

“Trust me,” Gregory responds, “This isn’t easy for me. Not in the least.”

Jesus knew lies, and that may have been the mother of them all.

Andy remains soundless yet again, and Jesus is already planning his next move. Soon, Andy will nod, and he will obediently trek through the woods towards Negan’s warehouse of horrors. Jesus knew what was going on here. Andy was being instructed to inform Negan on Daryl, and his people’s whereabouts. He was issuing someone’s death, and Jesus was not going to allow it.

“Okay,” Andy finally says, “But, if I go on foot, it could take a day, less maybe, but I doubt it.”

“They won’t be here until nightfall,” Gregory says, “Go now, and you’ll make fine time.”

There’s a scuffling noise, and then Andy sighs, “Okay. I’ll go. If I’m not back by tomorrow…”

“Be safe, son, and don’t be afraid,” Gregory laughs, “Negan rewards good behavior, funny enough. You’ll be fine,” Gregory grunts, and adds, “I have to get back in bed, my body’s killing me. I’ll see you when you return.” Jesus recognizes his treading, and listens as he clomps out of his office, and up the steps. Jesus remains statuesque.

There is a stillness, and then Gregory’s office door slips open again, and shuts closed. Andy’s footsteps trail across the hardwood below his feet, and then the mansion doors are flinging open, and swooshing to a close. Jesus abides beneath the staircase until he hears a bedroom door above him slam shut. 

He peeps his head from underneath the space below the staircase to ensure the vestibule is clear. The space is empty, so he creeps to the front door with a briskness to his step, and pushes through the main entrance. One he’s standing on the portico outside, he can clearly identify Andy heading towards the walls, and steadily approaching them. Jesus applauds Andy’s subtlety. Usually, the man was incapable of keeping his motives hidden, but his dedication to appearing innocuous was admirable, if not heavy handed.

Jesus is no coward. He has never felt an urge to wait it out, stalling until a hero emerged. When a situation addressed him, he answered without a hint of dubiety. He didn’t seek out life’s escapades, but he certainly didn’t shy away from them. If Andy wanted to play the role of a traitor, he would oblige to the role of conservator.

There was a space between the walls that Jesus was well familiar with. It wasn’t so much a tear in the armor, but a secret compartment. Jesus had practically built it himself, and to this day it was a decision he found no regret in. When the walls were being raised around him, there was a spark of tension within him. The idea of having to constantly be held accountable for the decisions he made in terms of where, why, and when to wander off was concerning. As careful as Jesus was, his whims came on impulse, and when they came, there was a hunger to fulfil them. The wall greatly hindered these caprices.

All it had cost him to alter this unsightly fate was an intimate evening with the architect who designed the walls. Jesus convinced his new friend to add a small, and unrecognizable door in the farthest crevice of the camp. The man had accommodated his requests, and incorporated a passageway to the outside world into those valiant, and impenetrable walls.

He remembers fondly the architect who made his adjure a reality. He had died only a handful of months after building a wall that could’ve kept him safe, if only he were within its reaches. Unfortunately, he was on a supply run, and far from the protection of his own motif. Jesus would find it apropos, but that would be rude.

The grass crushes softly beneath his boots as he approaches his confidential facet of egress. He swishes his eyes through the camp, scanning for a wandering eye, or turn of the head. No one, as far as he knows, is aware of the bijou exit located behind the mansion, and the trailers, and the rows of wooden terraces. Jesus takes precaution to assure it stays that way.

It blends so seamlessly into the wood of the wall that only a trained eye similar to Jesus’ would be able to discern it. He unlatches the tiny, bronze hasp on the door, nestled behind a slate of wood, and swiftly nudges it open. He ducks through it, then turns to secure the outer latch shut as well. As he’s rising to his feet, he hears the front entrance of the walls rumbling open.

He deftly coasts through the leaves, and shrubbery beneath him. He directs himself far right, intending on bypassing the gaze of Kal, and Eduardo standing guard, and instead catching Andy on the main road.

If Andy was clever, he would travel through the woods as to avoid being tracked. Andy, however, was not clever.

Jesus stalks through the Virginian overgrowth until he filters out into the thruway Andy would be following. He steals down the dusky, and uninhabited lane with a prompt step until he Andy comes into view.

Jesus realizes that rendering the man unconscious with a quick, and nimble strike would be a viable option. Jesus instead veers towards courtesy. That, and the body would be a pain to carry back to Hilltop.

“Andy,” he calls once he has closed the gap between them.

Andy twirls to face him, and draws his knife. His expression morphs from tense animus, to irked confusion. “Jesus?” he questions, “Have you been following me?”

It is not lost on Jesus how impervious Andy is to the obvious nature of the situation.

“Yes,” he answers simply, “I heard what Gregory said. I’m here to stop you.”

Andy makes a mutinous noise, then looks to the ground. He sucks in a sharp, and trembling breathe.

“Andy,” Jesus beckons, moving closer to the man, “You know you don’t need to do this. Rick’s group can succeed,” Jesus reaches his hand out to touch the man’s shoulder, “Come back with me, and we can make an appeal against this.”

Andy shakes his head, face still positioned downward. His voice is fractured as he says, “I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to die.”

Jesus places both hands on his shoulders, and begins, “Andy, let’s—,” but those are the only words he can deliver.

Andy’s head springs up, and his arm jets out towards Jesus. Jesus retracts with plasticity, but the knife in Andy’s hand charges towards him. As his coat flows to his side, the blade slices through his stomach. He gasps, and leaps backwards with a billowy gust of gravel as his fingers find the gash. It’s shallow, but it stings. Jesus keeps his palm pressed tight against it, despite the throbbing it causes. He sees Andy’s body rewind from his.

“I ain’t fucking dying!” Andy announces with ire, the knife in his hand positioned towards Jesus, “And you, and them? They’re gonna get us all killed!”

Jesus crumples to his knee, and glances down at the damage once more. The blood sticking to his skin makes him wince.

“Don’t follow me,” Andy warns, “Or, I’ll tell Negan.”

“Tell him what?” Jesus growls, “You’re the coward.”

Andy glowers at him, then takes off in a sprint down the side of the road.

Jesus stands with a deep breathe, and puts his feet into motion. He chases after Andy for a long distance. If the slash on his side would cease its stabbing pulse, he could have already grabbed Andy by the collar, and flung him to the ground.

His legs begin to tumble over each other, and his sight turns fuzzy, but Jesus refuses to stop. This was not a common mishap in need of prevention, but truly a matter of life, and death.

Despite all his determination, he blacks out. One moment he is furiously pounding doown the pavement, and the next he has awoken, sucking in as many gulps of air as his throat will allow. Dirt is stuck to his lips, and his head is reverberating with pain. He lifts himself up from his position against the ground, and onto his feet to look forward. 

Andy is gone.

He collapses back to his knees.

“Shit,” he mumbles, to the situation more than himself. Predominantly, he curses the item of verity that is the wound reposed just below his ribcage. Andy should not have gotten the jump on him. Andy should not have been able to sprint away from him.

Jesus felt like an amateur, but the acceptance of the gravity of his situation became clear. He had not slept, he had not ate, and he was gradually losing blood. In an hour, he could easily be lying face first in enemy territory, and then he would be an even larger encumbrance to the dire state of affairs. At least, back at Hilltop, he could warn them if they returned to the colony before their late night assassination. The decision feels as though it shouldn’t be clear cut.

He sits in the dirt for a moment, and contemplates trudging on at a more reasonable pace. The blood loss would almost certainly catch up with him before he caught up with Andy. He has many options, but only one plausible choice. Jesus glances behind his shoulder at the path back to Hilltop, and sighs.

He hopes, and all he can really do is hope, that on this particular evening, Negan is feeling lethargic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> My tumblr username is: boguslukewarm (I wish i could give you a hyperlink, lol)
> 
> Thanks again!


	6. Bird's Foot Trefoil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long to write! My apologies! I wanted chapters 6, and 7 to be posted together, so it took me a little longer to make the next advancement in our story. This chapter contains some depictions of gore, but only in one, short sentence, and it is not to any graphic extent. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and the next! Comments are greatly welcomed, and always help me to expound on my characters, and my plot! I wouldn't be doing this without all the feedback, and support I've recieved! Always head over to my tumblr, or comment if you want to discuss, or point somehting out to me.
> 
> Thank you so much, and happy reading!

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# Chapter 6

# 

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# Bird's Foot Trefoil

# 

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Maggie is numb, but there were a thousand different emotions racing throughout her body an hour ago.

Hopelessness thumped in the pit of her stomach like a drum, as a bow of anger was pulled against the shrill strings of her mind. The sound would climax, then fall deep, deep down, and disappear. A crashing symbol of doubt would float down, almost on a breeze, then swoosh back into the space of her head. 

A ting, one single poke of the finger, would begin the accompaniment of pain. The dark keys of her physical body were first. 

The stress, Harlan had told her, was causing her stomach to cramp, and strain. He said she would be fine, and Maggie knew that to be true. Her somatic form had experienced a paper cut.

The white keys, her emotional welfare, were struck. They encompassed the entire performance. They left Maggie paralyzed in her seat, and brought a tear to her eye. She had never experienced such a profound agony in her life.

The theatre was empty now. She sat alone. The feeling kept her transfixed. She had departed somewhere, was floating through this moment, but she could not locate somewhere.

Maggie was the petal that so easily drifted from its corolla. That is what she was to this world.

“Maggie?” Aaron tries again, “Maggie, you should rest.”

Maggie doesn’t turn her face towards him. She continues to gaze blankly at the blushed white walls of the trailer they had been offered, and her body remains motionless in the bed.

Aaron sighs glumly, and stands from his seat by her bedside.

“I’m going to check on Daryl,” he tells her gently, “I know you probably want to be alone, and that’s fine, Maggie. Tara will just be right beyond this door,” he reaches his hand out to show her. “I’ll be back, I promise.” He glances at her one last time before leaving the room as he’s pulling his jacket on, then turns away.

“Aaron,” Tara greets him, as soon as he ambles out the front door. The surreality of the situation still reverberates within him. She is propped against the outside of the trailer, and pushes herself onto her feet when she see him. “How is she?”

“She’s depressed, she should be,” Aaron replies, “I’m worried, but if she wasn’t going through the stages of grief, I’d be worried, too. Much more worried.”

“Right,” Tara says with a nod, her voice hoarse.

"How's Daryl?" He asks in return.

"He's going to be fine. That's what Denise said," Tara coughs to clear her throat, "So, that's good. They're in the medical trailer, the one near the mansion, if you want to go see them."

Aaron looks at her eyes, and looks away quickly. He doesn’t want to expose her emotional side. Instead of commenting on the wetness gathered on her cheek, he scratches the back of his neck. “I know you love Maggie,” he says.

“I do,” Tara says thickly, her sleeve pretending to wipe her nose, “She means the world to me. Her and…her and Glenn, both.”

“Watch her for me,” Aaron suggests, “I want to make sure she doesn’t do anything brash, you know.”

“Sure, yes,” Tara nods, “I will.”

“I’m going to check on Daryl,” Aaron says as a goodbye, “I’ll be back soon.”

Tara shakes her head, and steps through the door Aaron just exited. Aaron hurriedly walks himself to the medical trailer where Denise had been instructed to take Daryl. There are Hilltop residents who examine him as he moves past them. Some are coated too gratuitously in pity, while others are like lightening, unforgiving and sharp. They’re being thrown at him like darts, but he dodges them with an apathetic ease. He doesn’t care what these people think of him, but only if they can provide what’s needed to save his people.

He reaches the medical trailer, and pulls the door open. The front room of the trailer is lined with shelves of medical supplies, and a couch. Aaron paces through the walls of doctorial apparatus, and into the hall beyond it. To the left, there is a room designated as an operating OBGYN facility. The right is an operating room, and adjacent it a room for recovery.

Tara had explained to him prior the layout of the establishment for the scenario that he would wish to go, and visit Daryl. He turns right, and glances into the room where music is floating. A gentle instrumental piece is drifting through the atmosphere from a radio seated on top a small table between two recovery beds. Aaron had never ventured into the makeshift clinic of Hilltop, but he deemed it admissible. If he had to seek healing from harm some place, this room would be more than sufficient a place to lay his head.

The lights are fluorescent, and the night beyond the window is transforming quickly into day. Aaron would describe the sight before him as the gas station version of an infirmary.

Denise is engrossed by the sink in the far left corner of the room, the water running furiously out of the spigot. Daryl is lying between the sheets of a bed which appears to have been stolen straight from a hospital room. The poor man is unconscious, but his body is rising softly, and slowly beneath the blankets.

Aaron would feel a surge of relief if another man hadn’t been seated by Daryl’s bedside with a dutiful sense of alarm on his face.

“Who are you?” Aaron asks quietly, and without much thought.

The man looks up at Aaron, but Denise speaks before he can.

Denise knocks her forearm against the handle of the sink, and turns to look at Aaron. “Oh my god,” she starts, “I didn’t hear you come in,” she pushes her glasses up with the top of her wrist as she briskly walks across the room to meet Aaron. Her hands are still slick with water. “Come with me, let’s talk,” she says in a rush, moving past him. Aaron stares at the man by Daryl, and the man stares back expressionless. He follows Denise out the door.

Denise walks into the front of the trailer, and grabs a towel from one of the shelves. She wipes her hand with a sigh. “Let’s go outside to talk,” she says flustered.

She folds the strip of fabric, and lays it on the arm of the couch. She leads Aaron out the door, and into the dusk.

“How is Maggie?” She asks, as the door swings shut behind them with a catch.

“She’s sad, she’s … lying in bed where I tucked her in. I mean, I think her abdominal pain is subsiding, somewhat. I don’t know, it’s hard to tell when she just … stares.”

“She might be like that for a while. Shit,” Denise hisses, “This really just, I mean it doesn’t seem real at all.” She slips her fingers under her glasses, and massages around her eye sockets with a deep groan, “Did Tara tell you about Daryl’s condition?”

“Yeah,” Aaron affirms, “She told me where I could find you all, too. I was so, so worried, he looked horrible.”

“He will not feel good for quite some time,” Denise states, “But, he’s going to make it. I gave him some pain medication. The shot must’ve been low velocity, and pretty sloppy. I preformed debridement, and uh…” Denise squeezes her eyes shut, “I mean, the joint isn’t fractured, but I made sure no fragments were left. I closed the wound. My main concern from the get go was blood loss.”

“But he will be okay?” Aaron checks.

“Yeah, oh yeah,” Denise says, “I’m confident in that.”

Aaron nods, “Good, good. I was really worried.”

Denise points at him, “Oh, but why I wanted to uhm… talk to you out here I guess.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know that guy?” Denise asks warily.

“The man in there with Daryl?” Aaron asks, matching her own tone.

“Yeah, is he … I mean, he’s been in there since I finished dressing Daryl’s shoulder. He was sitting on that couch when I came out to get antiseptic. He was frantic as fuck, came at me, and was asking what happened, oh is Daryl okay. I was like, ‘Who are you?’ you know? Then I realized, ‘Oh, he’s the guy Rick and Daryl brought to Alexandria’.”

“Yeah, he’s the one that lead them here the first time, isn’t he?”

“He looks different without the hat, and the,” Denise motions towards her shoulders, “Long jacket thing.”

“It was Jesus wasn’t it? That’s the name I think I remember Daryl mentioning to me and Eric. Maybe I’m mistaken,” Aaron says.

“No, no, that’s it,” Denise assures, “I asked him if he had been to Alexandria before, that he looked familiar. He said yes. I totally recognize him now. I had treated him when he was unconcious, but still... what’s his deal with Daryl?”

“Maybe Daryl and him got close when he first came to Hilltop,” Aaron shrugs, “Maybe he’s just a… concerned citizen,” he settles on. “Did you ask?”

“We’ve only been in there a few hours together while you were with Maggie, I had time to. I should’ve,” Denise says with light sarcasm, “But, we didn’t really talk. I didn't know what to say, and I figured he didn't feel like talking anyways. Apparently he was getting patched up too when we drove up.”

“He didn’t say anything else?” Aaron asks.

Denise shakes her head, “Just begged me to let him see Daryl, so I let him stay while I cleaned up. He asked what happened, and I told him. He’s been sitting there silent since then. Harlan left to get some sleep after showing me around here. He probably could’ve told me something about him, Jesus,” she waves lightly at the trailer, “Or, whatever his name is.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Aaron replies, “How long do you think they’ll be letting us stay here? We may need to plan for a trip back to Alexandria soon."

“Well, when we came pounding on Gregory’s door, he didn’t seem too excited,” Denise crosses her arms, and squeezes them into her chest with a sigh, “I’m sure they’ll want us to beat it as soon as possible, but we're stuck here for the time being. Rosita took the RV back to Alexandria, and Daryl isn't leaving that bed anytime in the near future.”

"Shit, you're right," Aaron looks down, “I hate to agree with you, but I haven’t felt very welcomed, either.” He glances up, and over at Denise, “But, then again, they barely know Rick, and they have no idea who we are.”

“Guess you have to cut them some slack,” Denise agrees, untucking her arms to stretch. “Do you mind if I go check on Tara? And Maggie?” she says in a yawn, “You know, I play physician, but I went to school to be a psychologist. I want to make sure she’s going to be okay. Tara, too.”

“Of course, I’ll watch Daryl,” he says, “You go.”

“Thanks,” Denise says quickly, “If you, or Daryl needs anything at all, come get me, okay? Don’t hesitate.”

“Sure,” Aaron says, as Denise scurries back the way he came. He stands outside the trailer for no less than a minute, watching the world maneuver around him. He heads back into the building, the chill outside whisking in with him, and pads into the quaint chamber for rehabilitation. The music leads his way.

The man is in the same position as he was when Aaron stepped out, and Daryl is unfazed as well. 

“My name is Paul Rovia,” the man says as Aaron steps through the doorway, “A lot of people just call me Jesus, though.”

“I remember now,” Aaron says suspiciously, “If everyone calls you Jesus, I guess I can too.” Aaron scans the room for a chair, and Jesus rises from his own seat to drag one over to Aaron.

“Thanks,” Aaron says as he sits down adjacent from Jesus, peering at him over Daryl, “Are you two close? I can’t imagine that close, you’ve only known each other a day. Two at most, right?”

Jesus smirks, “No, I haven’t known him that long, but it’s not a crime to feel remorse, is it?”

Aaron quirks his head to the side to imitate a touché, his hand reaching down to take Daryl’s, “I guess not, no.”

Jesus examines the two of them, then remarks, “You must be close to him. All of you, you’re like family to one another. As far as I can tell.”

Aaron keeps his eyes glued to Daryl, a barely visible smile spreads across his lips as he replies, “Closer than family. For us, anyways. Ever since he’s came to Alexandra, we’ve sort of… recognized each other, as the same.”

Jesus keeps his grin, “It’s good you two have each other, then.”

Aaron speaks on a whim of reminiscence, his mind finally coming to terms with Daryl’s safety. “He’s my best friend. He loves to work on motorcycles, on anything that runs, so I’d let him tinker with things in my garage, and we became close. I think it helped him adjust to all this.”

“To the apocalypse?” Jesus asks.

Aaron laughs humorlessly, “No, to civilization. When he came to Alexandria, I think he felt like yet again, here he was, this… barbarian in the presence of the cultivated. It scares him to feel that way. It makes him feel as though the friendships he’s made, they’re faulty, I suppose. If they’re friends with Daryl in the apocalypse, then that’s good, but Daryl having to live in a suburb? That Daryl doesn’t exist, and so he’s on shaky ground.”

Jesus nods, “That makes sense.”

“Daryl makes a lot of sense when you get to know him. His straightforwardness is not something you find in every individual,” Aaron glances up at Jesus, “Most people have an agenda.”

Aaron brushes the hair from Daryl’s face with his free hand, “I was so concerned. You have no idea. I thought, ‘who am I going to have over for Saturday dinner, now?’ you know? Who am I going to go on runs with? No one was ever going to fill the space he left in this world. I would’ve lost a piece of my… my resolution in living, to be honest with you.”

Jesus watches them closely, and soundlessly.

“It’s hard to know what day it is anymore. The time, and the date all lose importance. That upset me.” Aaron’s voice is torn around the edges, “We went out one day, and as we were driving back to Alexandria, he tells me to look in the backpack. So I do… and, he had found me this,” Aaron laughs, and draws his hands up to form a square, “… It was a perfectly intact calendar. It was old, of course, but he said I could keep track of the days now. I wouldn’t have to write all the dates down in my journal. That’s what I used to do,” Aaron looks at Jesus, “I told him, ‘Well, I have to repay you.’ So, now, every Saturday we have dinner together.”

“How sweet,” Jesus responds flatly.

Aaron doesn’t seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm, as he continues, “Yeah, I always make him go find the ingredients. That’s the catch,” Aaron laughs again, then his mouth is formed back into a straight line, “Sometimes we would just spend the night reading together… neither of us are morning people. When I worked in D.C., I would stay up all night, just analyzing, and researching. I still do that, and so does he. People don't realize how smart he is.” Aaron shakes his head apologetically, “I shouldn’t be telling you all this. You probably don’t want to hear it in the first place.”

Jesus’ smile is unwavering as he stands to his feet. “I’ll let you two have some privacy,” he says with as much sincerity as he can fake, “I’m glad he’s safe.”

Aaron doesn’t speak as Jesus passes by him like a ghost, his smile faltering with each step, until it has completely drained from his face. He travels without looking anywhere but forward. When he is outside of the trailer, he immediately begins heading towards Maggie.

Aaron seemed boring enough, and Jesus considered that perhaps Daryl had found an offbeat domestic pleasure in his arms. Sure, it made Jesus sick, but at least he knew now that Rick wasn’t a boyish first crush for Daryl, but instead an escape from his current lover. Jesus wasn’t hurt, or disappointed, so much as he was furiously angry from the foolishness he had displayed.

Jesus hated many things. What he hated most was being deluded by his own wishful desires.

He flings open the door to Maggie’s trailer, and lets himself inside. Two women are embraced on the couch, but separate as Jesus comes in.

“Uh, hey, what are you doing here?” Tara asks frankly, her hand on her gun.

Jesus doesn’t take another step. He knows these people are eager to kill.

“I’m here to see Maggie,” Jesus answers, “I have something very important to tell her.”

“You can just tell us,” Tara responds, and Denise nods.

“Yeah, she’s resting. I don’t think you need to disturb her right now,” Denise says, only a tad bit too aggressive.

“She is your leader. She spoke for you to Gregory. Well, this involves Gregory, and more than anyone else, it involves her,” Jesus takes a few lazy steps, “She needs to know.”

Denise scoffs, “No.”

Jesus almost rolls his eyes, but keeps the urge at bay.

“Please,” he says with a patient sigh, “I won’t harm her, I have no intention. I’m fully aware of you two ladies capabilities.”

Denise tosses her hands up, and rolls her wrists, “Fine, fine. Go in there, but I’m going to be standing by the door. Okay?”

“No,” Tara blurts, turning to look at the woman beside her, “Denise..." She battles with her own dissaproval, then resigns, "Okay, let him go in there.” She swerves her attention back onto Jesus, “You can go in there, if she says it's okay, than okay. But I swear to fucking god, if you hurt her? If you fuck with her? I’m going to kill you. No exaggeration,” she ends with a shake of her head.

Jesus simply walks past them, and into Maggie’s room. He hears Denise stand up, and follow behind him.

Maggie is lying in bed when Jesus sees her. He sits beside her before he speaks.

“Maggie, I have to tell you something very important,” he says, only slightly louder than a whisper.

Maggie looks at him, but she doesn’t respond. Her silence is a form of protest against the events which are unfurling around her. Jesus knows the response well.

“After you, and your group left, I overheard a conversation between Gregory, and Andy. Gregory was the one who told Negan where you would be, that you would be near Hilltop, and that we were going to try and take out the Saviors. Andy went to Negan with this information.”

Maggie shifts forward, her eyes turning severely dark.

“Why?” she breathes.

“To please Negan, I suppose. Make things right with him.”

Maggie retracts unsteadily, her gaze focusing in. Her face tightens. She throws the blankets off the bed, and turns to let her feet hit the floor. 

“And you knew?” She glares up at Jesus behind her mess of dark hair, “You knew, and you didn’t warn us? You didn’t stop this?”

Jesus knows his next few words are crucial.

“I tried to stop Andy earlier. I followed him for a ways, and then I approached him,” Jesus leans back, and lifts the side of his shirt, “He surprised me.”

Maggie’s eyes lock with the now dressed wound he’s exposed to her.

“He did that to you?” Maggie asks, then decides, “You still could’ve caught him. You’re fast aren’t you?”

Jesus sighs, “Well, don’t cut me any slack, Maggie.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Maggie counters, “Someone’s dead, and frankly? Right now I’m feeling it’s your fault.”

Jesus shoots her a sharp look, then breaks away from her gaze to admire his hands.

“I chased him for as long as I could, but my body was starting to give out. I don’t know where Negan and his men are located. None of us do, but the people who have been there. I blacked out for a second, and lost him. I—”

“Gregory, he knew? He did this? He had a part in this? You know this for certain?” Maggie interrupts.

“Yes,” Jesus answers softly, “I overheard the conversation. Gregory is the reason Negan was able to apprehend you.”

Maggie leans close enough to Jesus that he can feel the heat in her words.

“If you’re lying to me… if you’re doing something here… I will find out,” Maggie sits back, and turns her head away from Jesus, “You can bet on that,” she says quieter. 

“The only thing I’m driven by is my disdain for Gregory, and my sympathy for you, and your people,” Jesus answers with the authenticity he truly feels.

She springs to her feet in gust of determined, ambitious purpose. “Take me to him, now,” she demands.

Jesus stands with her, and asks “Do you think now is the best time to address this?”

Maggie doesn’t respond, but stomps past Denise in the doorway.

“Shit,” Denise huffs, “What did you say to her?”

Maggie turns to look at her as her body stays in motion, “Gregory knew. He knew Negan was coming for us. He sent Negan after us.”

“Oh my God,” Tara breathes from her seat, “Oh my God.”

“Give me your gun,” Maggie says, staring down at Tara, “I’m going to confront the bastard.”

“Now? Fuck, and what, Maggie? If he doesn’t tell you what you need to know you’ll shoot him?” Denise asks, her voice as exasperated as she feels, “You cannot do this. You need to lie down, and—”

“And what?” Maggie retorts, her voice low, and her jaw set, “Mourn?”

Denise shakes her head, “Yes, Maggie. You need to mourn. You need to sit down, and think about this.”

Maggie stalks closer to Denise, her brow slanted, and her hair sticking against her face.

“Let me tell you something you already know,” Maggie rasps, “You don’t get to mourn anymore. You just keep moving, and when you stop, and consider any of this for what it is, that’s when you get hurt. That's when the people you care about get hurt. Well, I’m sick of sitting around now, and I’m ready to do something,” Maggie turns back to Tara, “So give me the goddamn gun.”

Denise, resolved that reasoning with Maggie is futile, turns to Tara, “Honey, don’t.”

Tara rises to her feet, and looks at Denise. It would be a sign of reason for Denise, if the glance wasn’t brimming with an apologetic accuse; the accuse being Glenn’s death. It was a trump card, and Denise begrudgingly understood.

Her eyes dart to Maggie, and she pulls her gun from the back of her pants. She places it in Maggie’s out stretched hand. “Make that fucker remember the name Glenn Rhee,” Tara says, her mouth twisting to hold in a sob, “Make him understand what he took from us. I know you can, Maggie.”

Maggie nods, and moves past her. Jesus follows closely behind.

“I need you,” Maggie speaks to Jesus without looking at him, “You need to bring me to him. We’re not going to organize this.”

“I figured as much,” Jesus replies, quickening his step to be next to her as he continues talking, “I’ll go up to see him. We’ll just walk right in. He’ll let me in,” Jesus adds, looking to Maggie.

“Good,” Maggie replies simply.

When they reach the steps of the mansion, Jesus places his hand in front of her.

“A word of warning,” he begins benignly, “If you want to hurt him, you need to understand the consequences.”

Maggie looks at him for the first time since she rose from her bed. “I may be… damaged, right now, but I can still grasp what my actions will lead to. You shouldn’t have informed me of something like this if you weren’t ready for this type of response.”

As she’s moving forward, he stops her once more.

“I’m on your side,” Jesus informs her.

Maggie barely smiles, “You’ve already made that decision. Let’s see if you can stick with it.” She stomps up the steps of the mansion, and through the doors. 

As they enter, Jesus begins leading the way without instruction. They trek to the top floor where Gregory’s bedroom resides. There’s a man in front of the door on a stool.

“Wesley,” Jesus starts warmly, “I’ll take it from here. You go.”

“What about her?” Wesley asks with harmless suspicion, “Did Gregory want to see her?”

“He wants an account of what happened out there,” Maggie responds with an aura of business, “He’s worried Negan’s getting more aggressive.”

“I see,” Wesley shakes his head, “Well, Gregory has been in a better mood lately. I’m sorry about what happened by the way. It’s not fair.”

“What is?” Maggie responds her lips curling into a smile that looks much easier than it is, “Thank you.”

The man returns her the favor, and makes his way past them, and down the stairs. They both remain still by the door until they’re assured he’s left the building.

Jesus touches the door knob, but Maggie’s hand grips his wrist.

“I’ll go,” she says, “Stay here, and make sure no one comes in.”

Jesus nods, and retracts his arm away. Maggie pushes the door open, and Jesus pulls it shut behind her.

“Wesley?” Gregory asks in a full bodied grovel, “Is something wrong?”

Maggie doesn’t speak until she’s standing in front of him.

“Hello, Gregory,” she says with a morbid playfulness, “I know what you did.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gregory draws, “And what the hell are you doing in here?” He speaks as though his words are more of a statement, than an inquiry.

“Your right hand, Jesus? He told me what you did. What you made Andy do,” Maggie doesn’t let her eyes drift anywhere else but his face.

“Oh boy,” Gregory breathes, “That snake…”

“This isn’t about him. This is about you, and me, and my husband,” Maggie rejoins calmly.

Gregory rolls his neck, and lets his hands elevate into the air with a sigh, “Okay, I admit it. Is that what you want? You want to confess to my crimes? I mean, what, is this some type of statement of moral superiority?” He points at Maggie, “Because you really have no ground to stand on.”

“What’s your logic there?” Maggie asks, her body stalking closer to the end of the bed.

“Oh, I don’t know!” Gregory begins, his voice more pointed with each sentence, “How about the fact that if I hadn’t made a deal with you, you all but assured me you would be taking it by force. How about that? Or, hey, how about the fact that you graciously took half of our supplies. Remind you of anyone else we know?”

“You’re so forthcoming now,” Maggie relishes with an abundance of sarcasm, “Why not all this honesty from the beginning?”

“Are you kidding me?” Gregory fires back, “You were a fucking gift from God. You, and your people, and your enormous fucking egos waltzed in here with all this violence, just waiting for someone to project it onto.”

“Why wouldn’t you want us to kill Negan, then?” Maggie proposes.

“Trust me, I want you to kill Negan. He’s stripping Hilltop of everything we have. It’s why I’ve been shorting him on supplies,” Gregory confesses.

“Then why?” Maggie stresses.

“You couldn’t kill Negan! You couldn’t take out all his men! Your people think that bravado is all it takes to rule the world. Well, I guess you got a rude awakening didn’t you, sweetheart?”

“You need to watch your tone with me right now,” Maggie hisses, “For your own good.”

“Good! Make more threats you can’t keep! My God!” Gregory booms, “You are so blindly unaccountable.”

“You’re one to talk,” Maggie retaliates.

“No, I know what I did. I admit what I do. You? You’re acting like you didn’t kill any of his men. You’re acting like you weren’t on your way to slaughter hundreds more!”

“What other option was there?” Maggie yells, “Your people are helpless! And Negan will suck us all dry! You’re only accountable now that I’m standing in front of you, and you’re out of options.”

“Out of options? I’m being nice, here. I’m honest with you because I pity you. I had to do something, or Negan was going to kill me. I had to give him something.”

“You killed Glenn,” Maggie blurts.

“I can honestly say, I’m sorry about that, okay? But, I didn’t kill Glenn. Andy told me that Negan already knew anyways, alright?” Gregory extends his hand out, “He was already planning an attack on you all. He knows where Alexandria is, and he knew who most of you were.”

“What?” Maggie breathes.

“He already knew! The guys not a fucking idiot. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Gregory shifts in bed, “There’s only one option with him, and that’s to appease him. Plain and simple.”

Maggie steadies herself, her body moving away from the bed. Her eyes finally leave Gregory, and focus on the wall behind him. “Did Jesus… he would’ve been in the lineup. Negan would’ve killed him… could’ve killed Andy… you don’t care?”

“There’s a thousand of them, and a thousand of me. No, I don’t care about them. I care about the whole, not the individual.”

Maggie holds her tongue. She wants to be reasonable. She wants to keep her people safe.

“I want to kill you,” she mumbles, “I decided I’m not going to.”

“You can’t kill me, you idiot,” Gregory reposts, “You need this place. You can’t kill it's leader.”

Maggie stares at him. Then she closes her eyes, and pulls her head away.

It feels as though Glenn is operating her body for her.

She is forced towards the door, and her fingers are placing themselves on the door handle.

“Listen,” Gregory starts, sucking in a deep breathe, “I am truly sorry about what happened to Gary, but I think that it’s to your advantage more than you realize.”

Maggie takes back control of her body. She turns her back to the door.

“Without any of your previous romantic hang-ups, you have the opportunity to run this place beside me. I like you, Maggie. I’d like your consultancy on… issues, like Negan, and … anything else that arises.” 

Maggie’s feet walk her back to the foot of the bed.

“You like the sound of that don’t you?” Gregory asks, a grin appearing on his face, “What do you say?”

Maggie locks eyes with him, and pulls out the gun.

“I just changed my mind about killing you.”

Jesus hears a resounding bang that he identifies as soon as it impacts with his ears. He rushes in, but bumps into Maggie leaving the scene.

“Jesus,” she says, a small drip of blood on her cheek, “I just shot Gregory. You said you’re on my side, correct?”

Jesus nods, “Yeah,” he responds breathlessly.

“You’re well-received here. A mediator?”

“Sure, yeah,” Jesus nods, panic bubbling in his gut.

“We’re going to need a lot of mediating in the near future,” she says with a nod, then shoves her hair out of her face with a sigh. “I’m going to see Daryl.”

She walks down the hall, one hand gliding across the wall of the corridor, and the other toting a gun.

Jesus creaks into the room. The sight of Gregory’s head painting the wall behind him doesn’t make him gasp. It doesn’t make him feel remorse, either.

If anything, it makes him a little giddy.

“Okay,” he says to himself. Maybe to the world around him. He grins, and repeats it, “Okay.”

It’s an agreement. Okay, he thinks, let’s work with this.


	7. Committed, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7, and 8 will be a two part deal that I will be posting together. I hope you guys enjoy them! We're finally getting to the integration of all our characters. Enjoy!

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# Chapter 7

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# Committed, Part 1

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Denise is rubbing her eyes in a way that means she isn’t consensually complying with the events which she has spiraled into.

Tara sighs, “I know you’re angry, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t be, but you being angry at me makes all of this a hundred times harder.”

Denise continues to hang her head in her hands, planted firmly in her seat. Tara paces in front of the door with her arms crossed.

“Let’s go see Daryl,” Tara suggests, letting her arms fall to her sides. She rolls her eyes, and her voice then becomes a haggard plea, “I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want?”

“No, I don’t need you to tell me you’re sorry. I just wish you would have thought about what you were doing giving Maggie, an emotionally unstable widow, a gun,” Denise states.

“You don’t know what he meant to me,” Tara blurts, her back turning to Denise, “You don’t know… I feel guilt for my actions, Denise, I can’t forget the things I’ve done. Glenn is one of the only people I’ve ever met with a heart big enough to not just try and forgive, but forgive you, and then forget it, too.”

“I know you two were close, Tara,” Denise says hesitantly, an apology in her voice.

Tara faces Denise, her eyes wet, “Than you know that giving Maggie that gun was something I had to do. Maybe it wasn’t smart, okay, maybe it wasn’t right. Maybe wanting revenge in whatever form it comes in isn’t right. Right now, I just can’t be bothered to give a fuck.”

“Yeah, I know that now,” Denise says, fixing her glasses, “Whatever. We’ll just work through it.”

Tara nods, and sucks in air through her nose, “Yeah.”

“Let’s go see Daryl,” Denise repeats, “We’ll tell Aaron what’s going on.”

They walk to Aaron’s location in quiet, but Denise’s hand finds Tara’s as they trudge along. When they reach the trailer, Aaron is still positioned at Daryl’s side.

“How is he?” Denise asks as a greeting.

“Oh, he seems… to be peaceful,” Aaron responds, looking up at them, “Where’s Maggie?” There is the beginning stages of panic in his voice.

“She went to see Gregory. Apparently, he sold us out to Negan. Told him where we would be, and Maggie was obviously not too happy about that.”

“Are you kidding me?” Aaron asks, his arms flopping to the side, “And who told her this?”

“Jesus,” Tara pipes up, taking the seat where Jesus once was, “He came into her room, and informed her of all this.” Tara lays a hand on the bed, and looks at Daryl, “Guys, I think—”

“No one thought to stop him?” Aaron interrupts, “No one thought that it would be a good idea to let Maggie gain some mental stability before telling her all this?”

“Yeah, well, Tara gave her a gun, too, so,” Denise says under her breathe.

“Oh my God,” Aaron breathes, “We have to go with her.”

“Maggie,” Daryl croaks, and every pair of eyes in the room focus on his face, “Aaron,” he continues, “…Where are we?” His voice is hoarse, and rattles out of him like the toppling of fall leaves.

“Daryl,” Aaron replies, his hand touching his face, “We’re in Hilltop. Denise patched you up… how do you feel?”

“I hurt,” Daryl responds simply, as though he's becoming aware of his body, “What happened?”

“What do you remember?” Denise inquires, and Aaron nods.

“The van,” he says, his mouth thick. He swallows, and shifts in the bed, but winces at the pain that courses through him.

“Daryl, don’t try to move, okay? I’m gonna try and get you a sling soon,” Denise informs him, her body moving in front of the bed.

“Yeah, whatever, thanks,” Daryl says in one breathe, his face a portrait of confusion. He takes another hard gulp to wash away the taste in his mouth.

“So the van?” Aaron asks him, “That’s the last thing you remember?”

“And Negan… I saw him… and the bat,” he shakes his head, “Glenn. How is he? Is he okay?”

Tara looks at Denise with distress. Denise looks at Aaron with a similar visage. Aaron keeps his eyes on Daryl, and Daryl keeps his eyes on Aaron.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “Aaron, tell me he’s… Aaron.” Daryl’s face twists, and his lips part to take a few steading breathes.

Aaron tells Daryl everything he needs to know without saying a word.

“Oh God,” Daryl breathes out in a quiet sob, “I can’t even do anything, Aaron.”

“I know,” Aaron says, his arms wrapping around Daryl’s body as best he can in the position. Daryl’s face tucks into the crook of Aaron’s neck.

Aaron realizes that this is not an opportune time for Daryl to cry, and that the man in front of him prefers the impartial nature of solitude to relish in. Daryl uses his friend as a folding screen, to compose himself behind. This isn’t a moment in which Daryl desires to be emotionally indecent.

Daryl isn’t completely present, and his mind is swirling with a fog of incoherency. He still feels the compulsion to withhold his sorrows. On instinct, he makes the mental preparations needed to withdraw into himself. At least, for now.

After a few decompressing gasps of air, and ensnaring of any outburst that dare to leap from his throat, Aaron lets Daryl go. Aaron brushes the tears from Daryl’s cheek quickly, and sits back in his chair.

“Where is Maggie?” Daryl manages after a timeless void of silence, “I want to see her, Aaron.”

“She’s with Gregory,” Aaron tells him, “He… he knew about Negan, and what he was planning to do. He told Negan where we would be.”

“That motherfucker,” Daryl curses, as though the words escape out of him without his consent, “Maggie’s with him now?”

“Jesus went with her,” Denise says, “They’ll be back soon. Hopefully.”

Daryl collapses back against the pillow beneath him like his head is made of steel. Aaron’s hand has slipped from his face, but is still a warm reassurance against his neck.

“So what do we do if Maggie pisses this guy off?” Tara says, “Am I the only one thinking that?”

“No,” Aaron answers sharply, “You’re not. We need to be here. We can’t get kicked out yet.”

“What’s that music?” Daryl says, his voice far removed from the conversation.

Aaron glances at him, expression tense, then back to Tara, and Denise, “If she does something, we need to be prepared. We need to have an excuse.”

“Yeah,” Tara mouths, then louder, “We all just lost Glenn…. It’s the truth, you know. That's a good enough excuse.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Maggie’s voice floods into the room, and every head turns to the doorway.

“Maggie,” Daryl chirps with confound burden, “I was worried about you.”

Maggie smiles, and moves over to him quickly, “I was worried about you, Daryl.” She leans over Aaron’s shoulder, and shoots a smile at him, too. His is less joyous relief, but a contrite longing for clemency. 

Aaron already forgives her for whatever she’s done.

“What happened?” Tara asks, her attention buzzing between everyone in the room, “Did he admit to it?”

“Yes,” Maggie says, her hand taking up Daryl’s like it were water in a basin, “He was shameless about it, too.”

“Gregory is dead,” Jesus announces crisply as he joins them in the room, “Sorry, did I spoil it? Did you want to tell them?”

“What?” Denise bellows, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Great.”

“Shit,” Tara exclaims, turning in her chair, with one hand braced on the back panel, “Maggie! Shit.” She draws her hand through her hair.

Aaron takes a deep sigh, and stands to face the crisis at hand. “So, what, are we going to war now? Should we be scared? For our lives?” Aaron directs the question at Jesus.

Jesus makes a clicking noise, his eyes fixated on the ground. Finally, he answers, “Okay, here is what you have going for you. Here’s the pros,” he looks at all of them equally. “No one here per say likes Gregory. It’s more a matter of him being here, being the only one who offered to be a leader, and doing the job with some degree of competency. However slight.”

“We could spin this to our advantage then,” Aaron speculates.

“We could,” Jesus says, “But, here’s the cons. My people don’t know your people. The odds are set against you just on principle. They’re going to err on the side of Gregory’s innocence.”

“Well, too, the devil you know,” Tara adds.

“Exactly,” Jesus affirms.

“Okay, so we try and get them to believe that Gregory is an asshole who got what was coming to him, and maybe they believe that. What happens next?” Aaron formulates, “What happens when they don’t believe us? Do we go?”

“I can lead this place,” Maggie says, her back facing them. She rises from Daryl’s bedside, and looks at Aaron, and Jesus. “I can take over here.”

“And they would let you?” Aaron balks, “I just don’t see that happening.”

“Surprisingly,” Jesus says, his finger wagging at Maggie, “That’s not too bad of an idea.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Denise interjects, “Just making sure I’m following all this. We have murdered the leader of Hilltop, and now were planning mutiny with a member of Hilltop. Is that right?”

“It’s not mutiny if he’s already dead, Denise,” Tara corrects.

“Silly me!” Denise says, her demeanor aloof acceptance of the situation.

“These people… how can I put this… they’re very mild, and they’re very oblivious. To all this,” Jesus gestures with his hand, “It doesn’t take much to gain authority over them.”

“The way I see it, we only have one option,” Maggie tells them, “We gather them all together, and we give them the truth. Complete, and total honesty. I tell them what I’ve done, and I tell them that I’m sorry, and then… I ask them if I can lead them.”

“This is going to go,” Aaron sighs, “Either really well, or really not well.”

“I lean towards not well,” Denise gripes.

“I think it could work,” Tara shakes her head, “Maggie, you’re a genuine person. They’ll see that. They can sense that.”

“Gregory on the other hand was an asshole, and everyone was aware of that,” Jesus says, clasping his hands together, “I wouldn’t be too negative about all this.”

“What about you?” Aaron says, crossing his arms, and pointing his voice towards Jesus, “What happens when this goes sideways? Are you going down with this ship, or what?”

Jesus smiles, “I’m going to be sincere here. I really like you guys. Much more than any other survivors I’ve met.”

“We’re definitely more drama than most groups of survivors I would assume,” Tara quips, “Like the apocalypse isn’t dramatic enough.”

“I think that’s part of your charm,” Jesus assures her.

“When do we do this?” Maggie asks, refocusing Jesus, "What about Gregory?"

“I put a piece of paper on the door that says ‘do not disturb’. Trust me, nobody will.” Jesus says, glancing at Maggie, “We could just bury the body. Say he went missing. People may be suspicious, but—”

“No,” Maggie interrupts, “I’m not going down that path. I’d be no better than Gregory.”

“Alright, just a suggestion,” Jesus accepts, “Let’s do it now, then.”

“Maggie,” Daryl’s voice drifts past his lips, and even uttering her name seems like a chore for him. “Please, be careful,” he begs.

Maggie turns as soon as she hears him speak, and sits herself on the side of the bed. “What I’m doing isn’t careful, but… I’ll be smart, okay?”

Daryl’s smile is dim, but he manages it, “Even better.”

“I’ll get everyone together,” Jesus says, swiftly making his way out of the room.

“Wait,” Aaron says, pacing up behind him, “Can I ask something of you? Something I really shouldn’t… put upon you, but I really have no other choice.”

“Sure,” Jesus says, an intrigue in his voice, “What is it?”

“My partner, Eric. He’s a friend of Daryl’s too, and he’s back at Alexandria. He’s a good man, and he’s kind, and he… I love him with all of my heart. He’s my other half, and if something should go badly, I figure you’re the only one who won’t be blamed for what happened to Gregory. So, please, please,” Aaron grips Jesus’ shoulder, “Tell him how much I love him, and to never give up. Tell him he can survive. I know he can. Please. Can you do that? For me?”

Aaron’s eyes are an entreaty he could never be soulless enough to deny. He shakes his head, and guarantees him, “I’ll tell him. Don’t worry.”

Aaron nods, and releases his hold on Jesus, “Thank you.”

In the midst of all the chaos, somehow, Jesus’ only lasting impression is that Daryl is, in fact single.

He can’t help but feel upbeat about it.


	8. Committed, Part 2

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# Chapter 8

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# Committed, Part 2

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Maggie, Tara, and Aaron watch from a distance as Jesus directs each Hilltop citizen over as though they are traffic. He arranges them into a makeshift audience.

“Well,” Tara says, turning to them both, “I love you guys. I’ll see you in the afterlife.”

“Denise’s pessimism is rubbing off on you,” Aaron returns, arms crossed in front of him.

“No, no,” Tara says, her eyes looking up as if to consider the suggestion, “I think it’s just the incredibly life threatening situation.”

“They aren’t going to kill us,” Maggie says quietly. Her mind is in an alternative state, and her body is lax as she keeps her eyes on Jesus’ movement. “If anything, they’ll make us leave… they can’t kill us.”

“I beg to differ, but,” Tara breathes in, and says in a huff, “I’m too far invested, now.”

“They aren’t that strong, Maggie’s right,” Aaron tells Tara. “But, it doesn’t mean a threat isn’t present,” he tells Maggie.

“Those spears scare the shit out of me,” Tara confesses, “I don’t know if you guys have watched the same documentaries I have, but they have some range on them,” Tara swoops her hand out, “They can really fly a distance.”

“Just dodge them,” Aaron says dismissively, “There’s a reason they went out of style, alright?”

Jesus waltzes over to them, his head swishing back to admire his work. He stops in front of them and claps, “Are you ready? Do you need me to warm them up?”

“No,” Maggie says with a grimace, turning to Aaron and Tara, “If they want to retaliate, we run to get Denise and Daryl, and then we make them open the gate with our guns.”

“That won’t work,” Jesus says to her back, “I have a secret way out of here. Don’t try and make them open the gate. We’ll negotiate our way out of this, and worse comes to worse, we’ll use my escape route.”

Jesus realizes he just unearthed one of his greatest secrets, as though he were discussing the weather. He can’t decide if he feels a sense of relief, or concern in these people’s influence over him.

Maggie turns to him, and nods undecidedly, “Okay, we’ll use… the hidden exit. Great, let’s do this.”

Those few scuffles forward of her feet feel like a thousand miles. She is fully aware that right now she is walking the plank. Aaron, Tara, and Jesus are gathered to her rear. Their presence, Daryl’s state of commission, and the life inside her is the only encouragement she can find.

It’s enough.

“Hello,” Maggie proclaims, her posture as staunch as a soldier at attention, “Jesus informed you all that I am here to propose a new course of action for Hilltop.” She looks on at the crowd of people in front of her.

“I do have one question,” Wesley asks, raising his hand, “Where’s Gregory? Shouldn’t he be here? Shouldn’t he be… approving this, or something?”

Maggie nods, “I have something to admit, and I’m not going to sugar coat it.”

“Here we go,” Aaron mumbles from behind her. Jesus glances over at the man beside him, then back to Maggie, a sternly interested expression on his face.

Maggie pauses for a moment, her own nerves besting her, and then she resumes, “I have murdered your leader, Gregory.”

The faces before her twist into a spectrum ranging from terrified, to outrage.

“What?” Kal shouts, “What the fuck—”

“Kal,” Jesus beckons from behind Maggie, “She had reason.”

“Which was?” Eduardo roars.

“Oh, fuck,” Wesley murmurs. He places his hand on his temple.

“It was not a power grab. He betrayed us. All of us.” Maggie explains coolly.

“What? When?” Harlan asks, then with even further puzzlement, “How?”

“He had been shorting Negan, and Negan knew it. Negan wanted his head, and so to get back into his good graces, he sold us out. Told me, and my people to take out Negan, and in exchange we would receive supplies we desperately needed. In reality, he went behind our backs, told Andy there,” Maggie points to the man in question, “To go to Negan. To tell Negan that we were on the road back to Hilltop, and that we were going to kill him. With this information, Negan found us, and murdered my husband.”

The crowd before her appears skeptical.

“I don’t believe this,” Kal claims, voicing all of their opinions.

“Who do you think you are, anyways? Stealing from us, lying to us? Murdering us, and murdering more than one of us? When all we’ve done is help you?” Harlan asks, "At first, I thought you were fine, but now I'm second guessing that."

“It’s true,” Andy utters from the back of the mass of Hilltop residents, “Gregory was scared. He didn’t believe they could kill Negan, and so he… I went to Negan. Maggie isn’t lying.”

“He admitted it without a hint of guilt,” Jesus comments, “He would’ve put any of our lives at risk if it meant a guarantee of his survival.”

Everyone stands in quiet acceptance of the undesirable truth, glancing at one another to gather each other’s conclusion. There’s a resounding air that Maggie’s words may be viable. The anger over her course of action still has not vanished.

“Look,” Maggie says, “I am going to admit something that should’ve been admitted the moment me and my people walked in. We have brought with us war. I am not blind to that,” Maggie takes a deep breath, “But I am also not my people. I stand here before you as a separate entity from the people of Alexandria. I know that war is not kind, and it is relentless. But, understand that war was coming. Who ushered it in is not what really matters. What really matters is that we all respond to it, not appease it.”

“War… with Negan?” Eduardo asks, the fear of a child in his voice.

“Negan is terrorizing every group of survivors he meets.” Maggie responds, “He’s a bully, and Gregory was of the mindset that giving him his lunch money would be enough. I’m of the mentality that bullies shouldn’t be given free reign just because they’re stronger than me, or anyone else. It shouldn’t be tolerated.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” a women mumbles from the crowd.

“Mandy?” Eduardo says, turning to face the women, “You agree with this?” The question isn’t loaded with judgement, but subjectively neutral.

“I do,” Mandy replies, looking to Maggie, “I’m sick of bowing to Negan, and I know, at least I feel like, if we all could team up, with other groups, too… maybe…”

“She killed Gregory,” Wesley says, confusion capturing his voice, “Do we just forgive that?”

“Yeah, well,” an older, black woman retorts, “Gregory wasn’t exactly a stand up guy.”

“What? Wait, Bertie, you didn’t like Gregory?” Wesley asks, “He was kind of an asshole, I know that. I mean, we all kind of—tolerated him, but—”

“He was a glorified cave man,” Mandy interrupts, “I’m with her. I don’t care. I’m sick of men telling me what to do. Negan, Gregory, they’re all the same.”

“Perhaps this is unforgivable of me,” Maggie continues, her voice soft, and pointed towards Wesley, “I believe that what I’ve done is not unforgivable.” She speaks quickly as she says, “I am about to make a bold claim, but all I ask is that you consider it.”

“I want to lead you people,” she declares, “I am not your savior, I know that, that’s not what I’m getting at.” She swallows hard, and bellows, “We need to establish a place of democracy! No more dictatorships, and no more rulers. Let me represent you.”

“That sounds nice, but why should you be put in charge of this place? What have you done for us?” An older man questions, “Paul, you must have some reservations about this woman?” 

“This woman can speak for herself,” Maggie counters.

Jesus looks at Maggie cautiously, then back to the man, “Earl,” he says with persuasion, “Let her finish.”

Maggie puts her hand out gracefully towards Jesus without glancing back at him. Her eyes instead stay locked on Earl. “You want to know why I feel I am qualified to lead this place? I believe I can lead this place because I am willing to die for it.” She sucks in a sharp breathe. There is a resolve in her eyes, and a promise to herself she will not break.

She will not convince these people through pity, but through strength.

“My husband wanted to build our family here. I’m pregnant with his child. He believed in this place, and everything it stood for. Now that he’s gone, I need to keep him alive. I want to keep this place alive.”

She looks at them all with a flaming intensity, and says, “Jesus told me you people are strong, and I believe that because I have seen that. In the way you move, and the way you maintain life. I see that. A person who is fighting, continuing on, and still maintaining a sense of humanity is the strongest type of person. After a while it’s easy to keep existing, but it becomes incredibly difficult to live. Let me fight for you, so that we can preserve that humanity.”

She places her hand to her heart, “I want to honor my husband’s memory by honoring you. Maybe, Negan beats us down, or maybe we beat him. I can’t guarantee an outcome, but I can guarantee that I am here to serve this place. That’s all I want. Let me do that.”

Maggie extends the hand resting on her chest outward to point at the gates behind them, “If I fail you, then I expect you to throw me over those walls, and I will never return.”

She closes her mouth, and waits for a response. There lies over them a blanket of quietude, and Maggie realizes fully that her words are her survival. She finally feels the fear that was residing in Aaron, Tara, and Denise.

“All I’m asking for is a chance,” she concludes, “Gregory did not give this place a chance. Negan did not give this place a chance. He expected you all to roll over, and obey, and Gregory ensured that you did. I want to give you a chance because I know what you are all capable of, but you have to give me a chance to prove to you I am worthy.”

Maggie takes a step back. There is no string of words that can deter the inevitable. She prepares to be burned at the stake, and prepares for it with her pride intact.

“I’ll give you a chance,” Jesus says, his hand touching her back.

“I will, too,” Earl says, “If Paul can, I can.”

Maggie breathes an invisible sigh of relief.

“I want to give you a chance,” a woman beside Bertie says, a defiance in her voice.

“Crystal,” Andy says, “She killed Ethan. She killed the love of your life.”

“She didn’t kill Ethan,” Crystal snaps back, “She’s fighting the reason Ethan had to die in the first place.” She looks at Maggie, her eyes filling with tears of anger, “People who treat us like pawns. Ethan was meaningless to Gregory, and he was meaningless to Negan. You’ve already taken out Gregory, now we have to take down Negan, and save Craig.” She glances back at Andy, “That’s what Ethan would’ve wanted.”

“Thank you,” Maggie tells her, and Crystal nods.

“I will,” Kal chimes in, “But you better be damn sure I’m holding you to your word. I will throw you to the walkers if you screw us over.”

“Same here,” Eduardo says, crossing his arms.

Harlan shakes his head, “Maggie, I know you. I knew Glenn. I still owe you,” he says with a smirk, “I’ll give you a chance.”

Bertie raises her hand, and says, “I will, too.”

“Bertie?” A pale, red-headed man says with disbelief, “You’re going to—to believe her? I know you hated Gregory, but whoa.”

“What’s there not to believe?” Jesus ripostes with hostility, “She’s standing in front of you, baring her soul, Alex. She wants to make this place better, and she’s asking for your help. For just a chance. What’s so hard to understand?”

Tara’s eyes widen, and she places a hand on Jesus’ shoulder, “Hey…” she whispers to him, “Maybe cool it.” Tara suddenly is stabbed with the fear that Jesus’ unprecedented whiplash of emotion will be the reason they all become exiles, or worse, corpses.

Jesus glances at her hand, and whispers dourly in return, “I am extremely cool.”

Bertie nods, “She lost her husband, Alex. That can change a woman. It makes her that much stronger. I would know.”

Alex shakes his head, “Fine. We’re in some deep shit right now. I guess we do need someone with the balls to stand up to Negan and his crew.”

“I agree,” Wesley says. He looks to Maggie, “And you definitely have the balls.”

The rest of them agree with nods, and unspoken support.

“Oh my god,” Tara says beneath her breath. Aaron’s expression agrees with that sentiment.

“I want to ask you one more, very crucial, thing,” Maggie says.

The crowd appears nervous, but listens attentively.

“Hold me to a higher standard. Higher than you held Gregory, and higher than the Saviors hold Negan. Will you do that?”

The crowd responds with a mismatched, and out of time chorus of, “Yes,” and a few diligent nods.

“I’m gonna watch you like a hawk, don’t worry,” Kal informs her.

“Good,” Maggie nods, “I’m going to Alexandria to let them know that I won’t be returning. I’ll be back soon.” She turns to Jesus, “Are you coming with me?”

“Of course,” Jesus tells her, “I’ll make preparations.”

“Oh,” Maggie says, swiveling back around to the gathering in front of her, “And I’m bringing back our supplies. Since the deal is off.”

“Thank goodness,” Bertie says with a sarcastic, and singular chuckle, “You robbed us blind.”

“Thank you,” Maggie tells them all, “Don’t allow me to let you down.”

She turns back around to Aaron, Tara, and Jesus. “Let’s go tell Denise and Daryl how it went,” She suggests to them.

They all turn to walk back to the trailer.

“So, are we going to discuss how fucking incredible that went?” Tara asks, “Because that was fucking incredible, Maggie.”

“I told you we would be fine,” Jesus says, “But keep it down until we get to the trailer.”

Tara lowers her voice, “I’m sorry, but I just feel like there should be some like, stupendously triumphant rock music playing as we walk away. Like in the movies.”

“Stop talking,” Aaron hisses, “We have to look professional right now.”

Once they enter the trailer, and walk into Daryl’s room, Denise stands up.

“Holy shit. They didn’t kill you,” Denise says in bewilderment. She puts two thumps up into the air, “So are you, like the leader now?”

“Yes,” Maggie says breathlessly, collapsing into the nearest chair at Daryl’s bedside.

“I am… almost too shocked to speak,” Aaron admits, his hand on his chest.

“I’m so proud of you, Maggie,” Daryl says sweetly, his hand reaching out to her.

“Maggie, that really was flawless,” Tara proclaims, her head turning to Jesus, “Until he went momentarily ape shit. What was that about? Going off on that guy?” Tara asks, her hands out in questioning.

“He…” Jesus sighs, “We have history.”

“So, you dated him?” Aaron assumes, more than quizzes.

Jesus turns his head gingerly to look at Aaron, “No, we used to have sex, Aaron. Would you like me to tell you how, too?”

“So everyone in here right now is gay,” Tara realizes as she speaks, “How’d that happen? Except Maggie, of course.”

“We’re like an apocalyptic gay mafia,” Denise says with gentle derision.

Daryl laughs, “Well, I don’t think I’m gay,” he looks up, and decides, “Maybe, I don’t know. I’ve never really ha—”

“Daryl,” Aaron snaps, then pats his finger lightly against his lips. He looks at Denise, “Maybe try lowering those dosages.”

Denise nods, “Maybe, yeah.”

“Sorry,” Daryl whispers, hanging his head.

“As much as I enjoy talking about my sexuality, and the sexuality of the people around me,” Jesus interrupts, “I think we may need to get going.”

“Are you bringing Eric back with you?” Aaron asks Maggie.

She shakes her head, her elbow pressed against Daryl’s mattress, and her forehead propped against her wrist. “I was planning on it,” she answers, “And Enid, too. If she wants to come.”

“It’s good we’re getting an early morning start,” Jesus tells her, “I’ll go make those preparations. Pack some water, and weapons for us.”

“Jesus,” Daryl calls, and Jesus turns on his heel to assure himself it was Daryl who mentioned him by name. “Denise told me you were worried about me, too. Thanks.”

Jesus perks up, and glances to the side, then back to Daryl. “You’re so welcome,” he responds, proudly. He turns and disappears out of the doorway.

“He really was,” Denise ensures them mindlessly. “It was kind of sweet.” 

“I’m sure,” Aaron replies starkly.

“Oh!” Jesus says, ducking back into the room, “One more thing. Who is going to stay here and bury Gregory?”

Aaron sighs, “Oh, you already know it’s me. Go on,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut, and waving Jesus away.

“Great, thanks,” Jesus says far too graciously, as he leaves again.

“I’ll help you,” Tara reassures him. She hopes Aaron understands the magnitude of that offer. Putting Gregory to rest was not originally on her to do list for the day.

“Guys,” Maggie mutters, “Can I have a moment alone? With Daryl?”

Aaron nods, “Sure, I’ll go help Jesus. Tara?”

“Yeah,” Tara agrees, “I’ll go, too. C’mon Denise.”

Once they’ve all left the room, Maggie takes a shaky breath of air.

“Maggie,” Daryl coos, his neck slack against the pillow beneath him, “Denise said we’re going to be staying here. You’re going to be the leader here?”

“Yes,” Maggie tells him, “I’m going to see Rick, now. I’m going back to Alexandria,” she sniffs, and wipes her nose on her sleeve, “I’ll be back soon.”

“I guess we’re both getting used to things,” Daryl says distantly, “I have to get used to being hurt, and you have to get used to being a leader. It’s scary.”

“It is,” Maggie confesses, a tear rolling down her face, “I feel very scared, and very overwhelmed,” she chokes up, “And mostly, I just miss Glenn.”

“I do, too,” Daryl says, his own tears forming, “But, we have each other, Maggie.”

Maggie chuckles, “And Aaron, and Tara. Denise.”

“And Rick,” Daryl says, a hope in his voice, “Rick, too.”

Maggie’s smile falters, and her expression tightens. “I want to suggest something for us both Daryl,” she begins, “I think we should start a new life here.”

“What do you mean?” Daryl asks her.

“You know, I think why we’re scared right now, is because we’ve never had to take responsibility into our own hands. Not really, you know. For me, it was my father, and he was a good man. A great man. Then, it was Rick.” She nods, “And Rick is a good man, too. But, my life, and my choices… I want them to be mine, Daryl.”

“My brother,” Daryl thinks aloud, his mind running alongside his mouth, “It was my brother. Now, it’s Rick.”

“Exactly,” Maggie affirms emphatically, “We have been under people’s thumbs since the day we were born. It is our time to take control of our lives, and our choices. It is time we live out from under the influence of others.”

Daryl’s head is cloudy, but Maggie’s voice is striking a powerful chord inside him. He doesn’t need to understand what he’s feeling to agree with her.

He nods, “I think you’re right.”

Maggie seizes up his hand, and looks him straight in the face, “I want you here with me, Daryl. I need you. Not your strength, or your—your muscles, or any of that. I just need you, Daryl. I need my friend, but I want you to choose, okay? When you get well, if you feel like you need to be at Alexandria, I understand. But please know, I want you here. I don’t expect you to stay. I just want you to.”

Daryl is quiet for a moment.

“I want to be here, Maggie. I want to be here for you, and I want to be here for Glenn,” he decides, “We need each other,” he grips her hand tightly, “We need to be ourselves.”

“You can always change your mind,” Maggie tells him, tucking his hair behind his ear, “Rest, okay? Let Denise take care of you. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’d go after him now if I could, Maggie, you know that, right?” Daryl begs of her, “I hope you know I would. I wish I could make myself.”

“I know you would,” Maggie insists, “But, you can’t, and that’s okay,” she smiles, and shrugs as a tear drips from her chin, “It’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay,” Daryl admits.

“It will,” Maggie says, rising from the chair, “We’re going to learn. Together.”

“Tell Carol to come, and see me,” he asks her, “I miss her.”

“I will,” Maggie says from the doorway, “Now, rest. You deserve it.”

Daryl nods as she disappears out of the doorway.

Jesus approaches her as she leaves the trailer. “Are you ready to go?” He questions, pulling a backpack over his shoulder, and extending one out to her.

“No,” she asserts, taking it from his hand, “Let’s go.”


	9. Quondam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am covered in poison oak, so I've had some time to write. Thus, 3 new chapters. If you haven't watched Weekend at Bernie's, I highly suggest you rent it tomorrow. Enjoy!

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# Chapter 9

# 

****

****

# Quondam

# 

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There is a memory consuming Daryl.

He can feel the cool metal of the washing machine he has leaned against as it jostles gently. There is a pain, jutting into his body, and his consciousness, but it doesn’t correlate with this recollection. He’s staring at a bandage, dotted with blood, and wrapped around his palm. A durable material is covering him. The cotton duck jacket encompasses his body like a turtle shell.

Fluorescent panels beam down onto him, and a trail of red light is pouring out from a short hall leading to a bathroom. He turns his head to see his brother loading clothes into one of the machines. There is an opaque screen of night that covers the large windows of the storefront.

The reminiscence seems more like a preconceived dream. While he resides inside the vision, the events seem fresh. There is an understanding, however faint, that he is subsisting in the bygone, but the concept phases from his apprehension as he becomes adjusted with his surroundings. 

“Merle,” he says, lightly enough to test his volume. His voice is small, and young, and it seems like a foreign object.

“Hey, you got a quarter? I need one more god damn quarter,” Merle responds, slamming his hand against the machine, “Sometimes if you hit the little fuckers hard enough, a quarter will fall out.”

“I remember,” Daryl obliges him, “Hey, I gotta ask you something.”

“What?” His brother gripes, whipping his body around, “You want me to stand at full attention for you?”

“Just making sure you’re listening,” Daryl defends quietly. He holds up his hand, “Do you think I’ll have to cut it off?”

“Are you being funny?” He demands.

“I’m serious, Merle!” Daryl whines, “It stings like a bitch!”

“You know what you are?” He says in return, his body moving back around to face him.

“What am I?” Daryl fumes.

“Dramatic,” He draws, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “Now find me a fucking quarter, will you?”

“What if it gets infected?” Daryl asks, ignoring Merle’s commands, “What if I die?”

“Are you this big of a pansy with everyone you know? I feel like I’m being pretty generous to tolerate this horse shit as long as I have.”

“You’re the only person I even hang out with,” Daryl slurs, flipping his uninjured hand into the air. “Whatever. Gonna be real sad when you gotta bury me.”

“Bury you?” Merle roars, turning back around, “What you think? We’re made of money?” He laughs to conceal a trace of guilt, “I can’t even find a damn quarter, boy. You’re gonna get a trash bag.”

“You ain’t funny,” Daryl grumbles, “If you were as funny as you thought you were you’d be selling out arenas.”

“Well, that pretty young thing at the bar last night didn’t seem to agree,” He says with brazen pragmatism. He deploys from himself a tired grunt, as he drops to his knees to look between the machines. “You know the one I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, I do, ‘cause you’ve only mentioned her about two hundred and fifty times since ya’ll screwed,” Daryl spits. “Asshole.”

“Who pissed in your cornflakes? You’ve been bitching at me all night,” Merle hassles him from the floor, “And I mean bitching more than you usually bitch, too.”

Daryl erupts onto his feet, “Oh, I don’t know, Merle!” He says his brother’s name as though it is an insult. “Maybe your methed-out, piece of shit, low life, good for fucking nothing friend who sliced my god damn hand open!”

“Lower your damn voice!” Merle retaliates, in a tone that suggests that Daryl is much too old to require this degree of scolding.

“It’s 2 a.m. in a 24 hour launderette,” Daryl counters irately, “If someone wasn’t causing a scene, or doing something sketchy, it’d be surprising.”

“Whatever!” He yells, reaching his arm into the space between the machines. He adopts a fake, sympathetic voice, “Oh, my poor hand,” he sticks out his bottom lip to try and imitate Daryl. He splays his hand against the washing machine, and slumps his body over it, “Oh, God, an ambulance please, somebody…” he dramatizes, as he pretends to wince from the pain.

“I ain’t some crybaby!” Daryl fusses, “If it was your hand, I’d have to hear you complaining about it all day.”

Merle chuckles absently, and plunges his hand into a crevice beneath the washing machine. “Got you,” he blurts triumphantly to a quarter between his fingers.

Daryl turns on his heel with an exacerbation in the tenacity it was requiring to tolerate his brother. “I’m gonna take a piss. I can’t deal with you right now.”

“Take your time, honey,” he patronizes, struggling to his feet, “You just decompress in the ladies room.”

“Fuck off,” Daryl barks, as he pounds his feet into the absorbing red glow of the bulb above the restroom.

Daryl slams into a stall, and locks the turn button of the knob. He immediately plops himself on the toilet, and mangles the bandages off his hand like a birthday present.

The laceration stares back at him like an ugly tattoo. He assesses it for a few minutes, then places his other hand over it, and rises from his seat on the commode. He glances at himself in the mirror, and quickly darts his eyes away. He unlocks the door, and pulls it open.

“Merle,” he lilts, nursing his arm to his chest like the broken wing of a bird, “I’m sorry for the attitude. My hand is just stinging real bad, you know.”

He walks from beneath the umbrella of amber, and into the flush of bleached light.

“Merle?” He calls lightly, “You gone?”

The laundromat is empty, save for an elder man slouched on a bench across the room.

“You looking for that guy you were talking to earlier?” The older man asks, already pestered.

“Yeah…” Daryl answers, a mixture of defensiveness, and confusion, “You know something about that?”

“Nope!” The man grunts, “He left a couple of minutes ago, though. So quit your damn yelling.”

Daryl scours at the man, and turns around. He fits his body against a crane game in the back of the room, and fishes in his pocket for his phone. He flips it open with his thumb, and opens an unread message on the screen.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes, looking down at his cell. A text from Merle is staring back up at him in dark, digital letters. He snaps it close, and shoves it back into his pocket.

“Daryl,” a voice calls, sending him toppling back into reality.

“Daryl,” Denise repeats again, “You need to take your medicine.”

“My medicine…” Daryl mimics, wiping sleep from his eye. He tries to move his other arm towards his face, but a sling is encasing it. “The fuck…” he mumbles.

“Don’t mess with it,” Denise warns, gently nudging his body back against the bed, “It took me forever to get that on.” She looks at him, “You’d think it’d be an easy enough concept, but not for me, apparently.”

Daryl nods slowly, “Am I supposed to be in this much pain still?”

Denise makes a noise that is both a sigh, and a laugh, “Yes, unfortunately, but I’ve got a whole smorgasbord of analgesics for you here, so,” she shakes her head, “That will help.”

Daryl turns his head to the side, “Wait… what are—”

“Pain killers,” Denise elaborates.

“Okay,” Daryl says with clarity. “When will I be able to get up, though?”

Denise’s mouth falls open, and then she closes it. She assesses her next statement, and settles upon, “Well, don’t take this an invitation to get up, but you could technically get up, now. But, you’ll probably get worse, and—”

Daryl shifts forward in swift excitement, but inhales a sharp breathe as he moves. 

“Yeah, see, that’s why you shouldn’t,” Denise comments, “Lay back down.”

“Shit,” Daryl whispers. He leans back, and asks her, “How long until it stops hurting?”

Denise lays her hand on the bed, “Take the medication, let your body rest, and you’ll be fine. Back to… gathering berries, hunting wildlife, all that… fun stuff.”

Daryl scratches his face with his free hand, “Fine.”

“Here,” Denise says, reaching her hand out. She drops two pills in his hand, “Take these for now.”

Daryl tosses them into his mouth, as Denise stoops down to pick up a bottle of water at her feet. She unscrews the cap, and hands it to him.

“Thanks,” Daryl says, his voice muffled by the pills on his tongue. He takes a few gulps, and hands it back.

“No, no, you need to drink that. Seriously, you’re not getting enough water,” Denise tells him, rising from the chair by his bed.

Daryl pulls the arm holding the water bottle back to his side, and nods. Denise sets the bottle of pills back on the counter across the room.

“Music,” Daryl says, his cadence still murky with sleep, “Do you hear it?”

“Yeah,” Denise affirms with a reassuring brightness, “Its coming from over there,” she says, pointing to a radio near her arm. “Do you want me to turn it off?”

Daryl shakes his head, “Nah, it’s nice.”

Denise nods, then walks back over to her seat. “You must have been dreaming,” she tells him with a smile.

“What?” Daryl asks her, “Why you saying that?”

“You were saying, ‘Merle’,” she informs him, “Must have been dreaming about him.”

Daryl ruffles, “You like to watch people sleep?”

“I’m your doctor,” Denise corrects him, “I have to.”

Daryl props the water in his hand against his stomach, and turns over his hand to look at his palm. There’s a dull, white scar that meets him.

“I wasn’t dreaming,” he says, “I was remembering. My brother.”

“You had a brother?” Denise asks, “I had a brother,” she places her hand on her stomach, “Oh my God. You’re going to make me upset.”

Daryl glances over at her, “I don’t mean to.”

“No,” Denise waves at him, “I’m just… you know, I miss him.”

“I do know,” Daryl responds, and the corners of his mouth upturn. “His friend did this to me,” he lifts his hand out to her, “See it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Denise says, “Jesus, that must’ve been nasty.”

Daryl nods, “I was thinking about that night… I was so fucking scared,” he huffs a breath of laughter. “But, he was right, it was fine. Eventually.”

“You should’ve sued that guy,” Denise advocates.

Daryl looks at her with humored wonderment, “Why would I do that? They were friends.”

“I guess,” Denise settles on, recognizing Daryl’s astonishment at the suggestion, “I think you would’ve been within your rights.”

Daryl shrugs, “He was washing my shirt for me that night at the Sparkling Coin, the laundry place, and I went to the bathroom. When I came back he was gone. Had texted me he was going to go pummel the guy. Make me feel better,” Daryl laughs feebly. “I was still pissed.”

Denise grins, “So, he was a good brother?”

Daryl looks at her, his smirk slipping as he contemplates that very loaded question. He wasn’t prepared for the emotional dilemma one inquiry could unintentionally spark.

“Sure,” he determines.

“Oh,” Denise registers, “Yeah, it’s always complicated.”

“Complicated is an understatement,” Daryl says, his demeanor truant.

“My brother was…” Denise sighs, “He was brave, and he was kind of a hot head. Most brave people are, you know. You can be sort of an asshole when you’re someone who’s unafraid.”

Daryl is quiet, but tells her, “Merle was like that, too.”

“We were so close, I admired him, absolutely,” Denise confesses, “But, it’s hard to relate with someone who’s fearless.” She laughs, “I miss him all the time, though. I miss his spirit most, probably. He made me feel stronger. We went through a lot of shit as kids, and being twins, there was just this bond. We were so different, but so in sync. You don’t forget that.”

“What was his name?” Daryl asks.

“Dennis,” she says with a blanketed yearning, “Merle was your brother’s name, right? Do you miss him?”

“I miss Merle,” Daryl says, “But, I don’t miss his… spirit.”

Denise laughs, “Kind of a dick?”

“Not kind of,” Daryl says with a hesitant smirk. He reigns it back, and says, “He fought until he met someone who fought back harder. He died fighting, and that’s what he would’ve wanted.”

“I’ve lost a lot,” Denise says, “But, he was the hardest. You probably feel the same way about your brother.”

“No,” Daryl replies, without much thought, “I don’t.”

“Oh,” Denise says offhandedly, “Then who was the hardest?” She closes her eyes, and shakes her head, “Wow, sorry, that’s rude. Don’t answer that.”

“Its fine,” Daryl admits insouciantly.

“Yeah, but that shit…” Denise sighs, “It’s hard to talk about. I know that.”

Daryl seems to be speaking to himself, as he divulges, “Sometimes you need to.”

Denise nods, “Yeah… well, definitely.”

“The hardest for me was Beth, this girl.” He looks at Denise, and regret is set in his eyes like a stone, “You talked about spirit, missing… spirit, or whatever. I miss her spirit. Every day.”

“How did you know her?” Denise asks, but Daryl shakes his head.

“She was my friend, and I—I don’t understand…” Daryl sighs, “She was a child, and I just wanted to keep her safe.” He glances back at Denise, “Just keep one fucking thing clean from this… you know?”

“Yes,” Denise tells him, “I know.”

“Merle made me ashamed to be… to just be myself, but she… she saw what I was, and she said, ‘that’s the best part of you’. I don’t know, I just wish I was…”

“Stronger,” Denise answers him, “Yeah, we all do. The strongest person in the world probably feels the same way.”

Daryl sighs, “That’s encouraging.”

“Limitations aren’t a bad thing,” Denise says, to both herself, and Daryl, “I have to remember that a lot, myself.”

“They feel like a bad thing,” Daryl complains, his eye lids feeling heavy.

“They’re not,” Denise affirms him, “Limitations are what make us who we are. If I could do everything, I mean… who would I be?”

“You’d be popular,” Daryl informs her.

“Okay, limitations are awful,” Denise admits with a grin, “But, you can’t do anything about them, so hey, might as well embrace them.”

Daryl blinks a few times, “I’m going back to sleep, I think.”

“Embrace those limitations!” Denise cheers quietly, “And, go back to sleep!”

Daryl can’t shake the feeling that his memory held more meaning than he’s willing to give it credit for. Perhaps, a commemoration for someone he used to be.

He studies the concept until he nods off after a short series of rhythmic breaths.

  
____________________________________________________________________________________  


“That’s why I’m never going back to New Jersey,” Aaron concludes.

“That was one of the wilder stories I’ve ever heard,” Tara admits, “What happened to the mail man?”

“Who knows,” Aaron says with a shrug, “He’s probably dead, now.”

“That’s morbid,” Tara replies, “At least he didn’t get fired.”

“Yeah, but I did,” Aaron gripes.

They trudge up the front stairs of the mansion, their steps almost in time.

“You know,” Aaron begins, “I really have no idea how we’re going to carry this body out of here.”

“I’m thinking,” Tara starts, her hands moving into an illustration, “We wrap it up in the sheet, and sort of,” she motions as though she has a frying pan in each hand, “Carry it outside. You on one end, and I’ll get on the other side.”

“We should’ve just done a Weekend at Bernie’s type of thing,” Aaron says, with an embarrassed chuckle.

Tara blows out a puff of air, “That’s awful, I don’t want to laugh.”

“Neither do I,” Aaron says, trying to trap his laughter, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“What if we had, though?” Tara says, a giggle escaping her.

“It’s not going to be funny when we have to drag this guy downstairs,” Aaron assures her, opening the door for them both.

“Do we just walk in?” Tara asks him.

“I would… assume,” Aaron mumbles, glancing around, “Let’s just go.”

They scurry up the flight of stairs which lead to the top floor.

“This is where Jesus said he would be,” Tara points to a door at the end of the hall.

They both approach the entrance in question, and halt in front of it. Aaron peels off a flimsy piece of paper taped to the door.

“Do not disturb,” Tara reads it aloud, “This is the room Jesus was talking about.”

Aaron looks at her, “Where did he find tape?”

“And, that still had its adhesive…” Tara taps her fingers together, “Quality, I guess.”

Aaron shakes his head, and crumples it up in his hand. He turns the knob with his free hand, and pushes it open.

“Christ,” Aaron breathes as he walks into the room. He drops the ball of paper to the floor.

“It certainly smells like death,” Tara comments. She walks in front of the bed, and finally gets a full view of the gory scene. “Oh, holy shit!”

Aaron stands beside her speechlessly.

“Do we gotta clean the blood, and everything?” Tara gapes, slightly appalled. 

“Well, yeah,” Aaron remarks, “What are we going to do? Hire a cleaning crew?”

Tara sighs, “Let’s just handle one thing at a time, here.”

They walk on either side of the blood soaked mattress, and stare at each other.

“You wanna try the, uh,” Tara examines the mess in front of her, “The roll and go?”

“What, wrap him in the sheets?” Aaron confirms.

“Yeah,” Tara chirps, “I think we can do it.”

Aaron stands still, and crosses his arms in contemplation. Tara waits patiently for his response.

“Yeah, okay, let’s try it,” he remarks finally, moving into position.

They untuck the sheet from the bed, and fold it over each side of the body. Aaron grabs the pillows underneath him, and tosses them on the ground. Tara shifts the body within the sheet to lie flat, then folds the material over, completely obscuring what’s inside. 

They manage to turn the body sideways inside the sheet, to lay across the bed. Aaron puts his hands underneath his shoulders, and Tara secures a grip on his ankles. They hoist the body over the end of the bed, and onto the ground.

“That was easy,” Tara breathes, “Now, let’s do that all the way downstairs.”

Aaron strides towards a closet in the room, and opens it up.

“It’s a linen closet,” he says, “I thought it would be.”

“Should we wrap another one around him?” Tara questions, stepping up behind him.

“Yes,” Aaron decides, gathering an armful of sheets from one of the shelves.

He hands one to Tara, and instructs her to lift up the body on each end as he wraps the cloth around him. Aaron slides each corner of the sheet under, and around him with Tara’s help. Once the body is thoroughly bundled, he stands from his knees, and Tara follows suit.

“That’s enough,” Tara says, looking at him, “You wanna get that end?” She points towards his feet which are positioned near Aaron.

Aaron nods, and bends down to get a sturdy grip on the wad of blanket, and human mass. Tara grabs the other end, and counts off.

“Okay, one, two… three,” she huffs, as they both propel the parcel up.

“Be careful going out the door,” Aaron warns her, “Do you want me to walk down the stairs?”

“No, I got it,” Tara assures him, glancing behind herself frequently.

They take careful steps as Tara walks backwards. Aaron glares behind her shoulder to make sure her footsteps are sure.

“We’re almost there,” Aaron applauds, as they reach the final flight of stairs.

“Yes,” Tara sibilates, as her foot hits the hard wood floor of the entryway.

“Nice,” Aaron says, “You need to rest?”

Tara lowers the body to the ground, and rises to prop her hands on her hips.

“No, I’m good,” she squints, and moves her head to look beside the staircase. She points, “Look at that chaise lounge,” she admires.

Aaron turns to look over his shoulder, and makes an impressed peep when his eyes connect with the sofa. “Huh, I bet that’s worth a pretty penny.” He turns back to her, “I’ll get the door. Let’s keep going.”

Aaron jolts to the door, and pushes it open. He returns to the body, and helps Tara shuffle it outside. 

“Let’s take it to the side of the mansion,” Aaron suggests, “That’s where their graves are.” Tara moves in silent agreement as they haul the corpse in the corresponding direction.

Aaron and Tara drop the body into the dirt in unison when they reach the middle of the grave site.

“Do we bury him?” Tara asks, wiping her hands across her shirt.

“I think so, yeah,” Aaron replies, looking towards her, “We’ll need shovels.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Bertie says from behind them.

Aaron, and Tara turn to address the voice they heard. Bertie, Mandy, and Crystal are gathered together, awaiting their response.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, “Jesus told us to go ahead, and take care of his body.”

“Don’t bury him,” Crystal snarls, walking over to him, and Tara, “We’ll burn him.”

“I think the women here knew Gregory best,” Mandy discloses, an emphasis of disgust in her words.

“Well, he certainly didn’t try to fuck the men,” Bertie says, turning to Mandy.

“He doesn’t deserve a burial,” Crystal continues, glaring at the body.

“I kind of have to agree,” Bertie says, walking up behind her. She looks up at Aaron, and Tara, “You two have done enough,” she places her hand on Crystal’s back, and continues, “As much as I hate to say it, he was a member of the Hilltop Colony. We’ll handle it ourselves.”

“If you need our help, we’ll be inside,” Tara offers, “We want to be a part of this place too, you know.”

“We appreciate it,” Mandy answers with a candid gratefulness, “But, we’ve got this one.”

Aaron nods, and motions at Tara to head back into the mansion.

“You think they’ve got bleach?” Tara asks, once they’ve traveled out of ear shot of the women.

“I hope so,” Aaron comments, “And the rug, oh god,” he shakes his head. “At least we didn’t have to… dig a hole.”

“I’d rather dig a hole than scrub the floors!” Tara protests.

“Listen,” Aaron says, stopping her when they reach the front door. “How about I tell you part two?”

“Part two? I thought you said part one was the reason you never went back to New Jersey? There’s a part two?” Tara almost exclaims.

“There’s a part two,” Aaron mumbles, opening the door.

“Well, go on!” Tara exaggerates, “I’m all ears.”

“After we find the bleach,” Aaron insists, “I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“It’s the apocalypse,” Tara excuses, with a flip of her hand, “Judgement is a thing of the past.” She stops in the corridor, and truly looks at Aaron for the first time since they began their escapade. “Hey, thank you.”

“For what?” Aaron asks, “You’re the one helping me.”

“No, for… distracting me. I’ve, well, we’ve all been… I’m sorry,” she huffs a breath of laughter, “It’s just nice to not be miserable for once, you know?”

Aaron nods, then places his hands on his hips, and looks down. He reconnects his gaze with her, and says, “You know, flattering me won’t get you the story any faster.”

Tara snaps her fingers together with a grin, “Damn!”

  
____________________________________________________________________________________  


“I’m glad Rosita took the RV with her,” Maggie huffs, “It’s not like I’m pregnant or anything.”

Jesus glances over at her, “She probably didn’t assume you’d be on your feet this soon. Let alone leading a new colony of strangers, and journeying on foot to your old colony with one of those strangers.”

“You think I haven’t considered the fact you could kill me?” Maggie asks him, “Because I have. I don’t really care.”

“Is that noble, or stupid?” Jesus asks himself, more than her. “I can’t decide.”

“It’s neither,” Maggie answers, “It’s just how I feel about it.”

“You have a child,” Jesus states, “That has to make you value your life.”

“It has to?” Maggie says, looking at him, “Obviously not the case.”

“You don’t care, then?” Jesus asks.

Maggie sighs, “I’m starting to question… starting to accept, actually, that having a child right now is one of the worst decisions of my life.”

“Nine months of shame,” Jesus nods, “That sounds like fun.”

“Not shame,” Maggie replies, “Just… guilt.”

“Guilt?” Jesus poses, “For the baby?”

“Can you imagine being born into this?” Maggie shakes her head, “I’m starting to think never having the chance to live is better than being born in hell.”

“I can see your point of view,” Jesus tells her, “But, it would make more sense if you were some sort of burden.”

Maggie laughs airily, “I’m a burden.”

“How?” Jesus asks with true confusion.

“Not now, but I will be,” she stops, and shrugs her backpack off her shoulders.

“We’re all a burden at some point,” Jesus says, letting his body pause with her, “I would say you’ve been, if anything, beneficial to the people around you.”

“You’re a kiss ass,” Maggie tells him, as she unzips her bag.

“Sometimes, yes,” Jesus answers with a shrug, “I feel like with you honesty is the best policy.”

“It is,” Maggie says, pulling a bottle of water out of the opening.

“You’re not a burden,” Jesus repeats, “The baby will be a burden, though.”

Maggie unscrews the cap of the bottle, and gulps it down hard. When the plastic container leaves her lips, she takes a deep breath, and nods. “Exactly. I’ll be a burden by association.”

“See,” Jesus begins, extending his hand out, “I think, in your—how do I put this, let me see. Belligerent sadness? You’re forgetting something.”

“Oh no,” Maggie responds, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” She screws the cap back on, and tosses it into the backpack. “Everyone else is forgetting. I don’t forget, and that’s my problem.”

“They’re forgetting Glenn?” Jesus asks.

“I don’t blame them either,” Maggie answers, “You have to. I had to forget about my sister, and my dad, and all my other friends. You have to.” She zips up the bag, “It’s just hard to watch everyone around you forgetting him… forgetting his life, and you can’t.” She looks up at Jesus, “I can’t. Not yet. Not so soon.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” Jesus says, taking a few steps closer to her. “What you’re forgetting, Maggie, is not Glenn, but that what you think is the worst decision of your life is the only thing you have left of him.”

Maggie stares at Jesus, the strap of her backpack hanging loosely from her fingers.

“It may be a burden,” Jesus remarks, “But, that burden is going to be a constant reminder to everyone you ever meet, and everyone your child ever meets, that Glenn existed.”

Maggie pulls her hair out of her face, and lets her hands rest on the side of her head. She looks down at her abdomen, “Yeah…” she trails off.

“You never know, Maggie. We may create a world someday soon worth living for. Hell is permanent. This earth,” he tucks his hair behind his ears, and looks at the trees lining the road, “The earth is temporary, every phase of it.” His eyes flash to Maggie, “In the meantime, I think you should care if you live or die.” 

“I just… I don’t want to let him down, and I don’t want to let...” Maggie touches her stomach lightly, and glances up at Jesus, “I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“You won’t,” Jesus responds, “The best thing to do in your situation is to not assume the worst. Wishful thinking, sure, but… it helps to remember that nothing is hopeless.”

Maggie bites her lip, “Yeah, that’s easier said than done, isn’t it?”

“Most things are,” Jesus looks at the road ahead of them, “Let’s keep moving. It’s safer in the forest.”

Maggie nods, “Then let’s go through the forests.” She slings her backpack over her shoulder, and puts her hand out, “Lead the way.”

Jesus walks in front of her, but Maggie touches his arm. It stops him, and propels him to turn and face her.

“You’re not an ass kisser,” she informs him with a smirk.

Jesus returns the look, “I am, but…” he shrugs, “Maybe, you’re changing me.”

“You did say you were on my side,” Maggie reminds him.

“Yeah,” Jesus moves forward to guide her on, “I remember.”


	10. Alluvium

****

# Chapter 10

# 

****

****

# Alluvium

# 

****

 

“Maggie?” Michonne bellows from behind the gate, “Holy shit,” she breathes. She runs to unlock the enclosure, and pulls it open wide enough for Maggie, and Jesus to slip through.

“Michonne,” Maggie addresses her.

“Maggie,” Michonne says, mystified at the woman in front of her, “It’s good to see you.” She moves to embrace her, and Maggie accepts the gesture openly. Michonne shakes her head, as she holds tight to Maggie, and mutters, “I’m sorry.” 

Maggie nods. There isn’t much else to respond with.

Michonne pulls away, and says, “Is this about Gregory?”

Maggie sighs deeply, “In a way.”

“C’mon, we’ll go talk to Rick, and everyone else,” Michonne glances at Jesus stiffly, then turns to lead the way.

“How’s Rick?” Maggie asks, an increasing discomfort rising in her at the sight of her old home. She tries to keep her concentration on Michonne’s back.

“Not good,” Michonne says in a sigh, “But, what’s to be expected from him.” She shoots her eyes back to Maggie, “We both know Rick. We know how he gets.”

Jesus touches Maggie’s shoulder and whispers, “Let’s try and get back before dark.”

Maggie nods at the suggestion.

Michonne stops in front of Rick’s abode, and turns around. She eyes Jesus, and asks him with a scowl, “Are you everyone’s best friend, now?”

Jesus touches his chest, “Me?”

“I’m not talking to Maggie,” Michonne quips.

“He’s been pretty helpful lately,” Maggie says, giving Jesus a long, knowing look. “He’s currently acting as a sort of… right hand.”

“You must be pretty good at your job,” Michonne expresses to Jesus, “Being we’ve only known you a few days.”

“I guess so,” Jesus contends with a placid smile.

Michonne turns to Maggie, “Go on in. I’ll tell Carol, and Rosita you’re here. Abe, and Sasha, too.” She gives them a nod of her head, and makes her way through the rows of houses.

“I’m your right hand?” Jesus proclaims, more than affirms, “I must really be growing on you.”

“I said acting as one. There’s a difference,” Maggie shrugs, “Besides, you’re all I’ve got right now.” She turns to look at him, “But don’t fucking say a word in here.” She looks up at the stairs in front of the house, “In fact, sit here.”

Jesus nods, “Whatever you say.” He plops himself down onto the second step, and glances at Maggie’s feet as she stomps up to the door.

“Don’t leave that spot,” Maggie orders without looking back at him.

“I have nowhere else to be,” Jesus ensures her, his eyes grazing the Alexandrian terrain.

Maggie opens the door, and steps inside. Once she’s let it slide shut behind her, she walks through to the middle of the living room, and calls, “Rick?”

“Maggie?” a disembodied voice beckons in response. Maggie recognizes the intonation as belonging to Carl. He appears from the kitchen, with Judith on his hip. “Oh my God,” he utters. He moves towards her as soon as their faces meet.

They embrace, as Judith’s small fingers graze her shoulder. When Carl releases her, there's inclination towards tears that rises in him.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he admits, “We all have been. We didn’t think we’d see you here this soon.”

“I have news,” she informs him, “Pretty big news.”

“I’ll put Judith down,” Carl says, his body already in motion. “Dad’s upstairs. You should go talk to him.”

Maggie peers up the row of steps, and begins moving her feet up each inclination. Her hands slides against the cool, polished wood of the railing, and something in its manner disturbs her. She draws her hand in, and continues up the stretch of tread.

“Rick?” She repeats, as she reaches the top floor, “Rick its Maggie. Carl said you’d be up here.”

She pushes open the first door to her right, and cautiously, but promptly, walks inside. Rick is sitting on the side of the bed, and his head is in his hands.

“Rick?” Maggie hails, much softer than before.

Rick lifts his neck up to meet her gaze, and his face is indicative of his head space.

“I’m sorry,” Rick utters, and it seems as though the words are part of a series he’s been repeating. 

Maggie’s expression is austere, but her eyes are like velvet. Rick watches her closely as she stalks from the doorway, over to the space of bed beside him.

“It’s okay,” she pledges to him, “You did the only thing you could do.”

“That’s not true,” Rick says, his voice a broken instrument, “I failed all of you, and there’s nothing I can do.”

“Stop it,” Maggie barks, grabbing his shirt in her hand. Rick’s head jerks over to look at her. “You’re not responsible for this. We all are responsible for this. We’re going to make it right together.”

Rick shakes his head, “Gregory has a deal with Negan. Hilltop is weak… we’re too weak—”

“Gregory is dead,” Maggie asserts, “And Hilltop is mine, now. They made me leader.”

“Negan?” Rick asks weakly.

“No, me,” Maggie corrects. “He sold us out to Negan, told him where we would be. I shot him in the head.”

“God,” Rick wavers in his seat on the bed, a wave of chagrin passing through him. He leans back against the surface of the sheets, “I wish… you hadn’t had to do that.”

“Don’t be. We can retaliate now,” Maggie says, “But we have to be smart, Rick. The Saviors, they must have eyes everywhere.”

“I’ll have to give him what he wants for now,” Rick sighs, his eyes on the ceiling.

“So will I,” Maggie notes, “We have to play along for now, but secretly, we can plan against this. We can’t tell anyone except the people we trust the most, but we can do this.”

Rick closes his eyes, “You’re staying at Hilltop, aren’t you?”

Maggie is quiet for a beat, then lays her body next to Rick’s on the bed.

“We’ve been through so much, haven’t we?” Rick shakes his head, and swallows hard in his throat, “I feel like you’re one of the only people whose seen me at my very worst.”

Maggie nods, “I think we both know each other’s worst sides pretty well.”

“When Lori died, I didn’t think I’d be able to get back up,” Rick shuts his eyes again, “I really, really wanted it all to just stop.”

“I know what you mean,” Maggie utters.

“When you were…punching me that night, I wanted it to just stop. It wasn’t enough that Glenn was dead, but now, that feeling I felt… I knew you were feeling that, too.” He looks over at Maggie beside him, “I thought, ‘I had to accept the death of my wife, for the… the gift of my daughter…’ and Maggie, I never wanted anyone to experience that—that trade off, let alone you.”

Maggie connects eyes with Rick, then looks back up at the ceiling. A tear topples down her cheek, and soaks the sheet beneath her head. “I love you, Rick.”

Rick finds her hand on the bed, and mumbles, “I love you.”

Maggie takes a deep breath, and maintains, “I’m going to live at Hilltop.”

“By yourself?” Rick asks.

“No,” Maggie responds, snorting in a gust of air, and releasing it past her lips. “Daryl’s coming with me. Aaron, Tara, and Denise, too.”

“Daryl?” He asks, truly puzzled, “What will I do without Daryl?”

“You’ll make do,” she says, “He decided to stay at Hilltop.”

“Alright… if that’s what you think is best. If that’s what he wants, but,” Rick sighs, “Denise… we may need her back, eventually.”

“She’s looking after Daryl,” Maggie explains, “Once he’s well, we’ll talk about it.”

“I understand,” Rick squeezes her hand, and says, “I want to fix this.”

“We will,” Maggie tells the fan above their head, “When Negan comes, let him take the supplies. We can communicate, and figure out a strategy. I’ll send Jesus to you when needed, and you can send someone to me.”

Rick nods, “Okay.”

“Rick,” Maggie says, turning her head to look at him, “Talk to Michonne, and talk to Carl. They’re scared too, you know.”

“I know,” Rick says, “That’s what makes it hard to talk to them.”

“No one can talk to you when you’re like this,” Maggie tells him, “So talk to them. Don’t make this harder for them than it has to be.”

Rick rises up, and Maggie follows after him.

He pats her knee, and says, “Okay, let’s go talk to them.”

  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  


Jesus stays situated on the stairs for all of three minutes. Possibly less, he didn’t time himself. He ventures off the wooden seat, and onto the porch. The door becomes propped open by an agile hand, and he sneaks his way inside.

“You need a snack?” A far off voice says, “Are you hungry again?”

Jesus peeks behind the wall of the living area, into the kitchen. Carl is rocking Judith in his arms, his back turned to Jesus.

He ducks past the kitchen, and into the hall of two rooms adjoined to the sitting area. He pushes past the first door, but hears footsteps behind him. He could avoid the confrontation, but his pesky, courteous nature is nagging at him. He turns, and meets the gun in Carl’s hand.

“This is the second time I’ve had to do this,” Carl comments.

“What is in this room?” Jesus asks.

“That’s Daryl’s room,” Carl answers, his gun still perfectly poised. Judith releases a bubbly coo from his arms.

“Really?” Jesus concocts an idea on the spot. “That’s perfect.”

“Why is that?” Carl asks, turning his head slightly to glance at Judith through his peripherals.

“He asked me to grab something for him,” Jesus states, “I’ll be right back.” His hand touches the door, but Carl’s gun doesn’t budge.

“What did he want you to get?” Carl questions knowingly, “I’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, no, no,” Jesus assures him, “It’s something… very personal. He probably wouldn’t want you to see it.”

Carl fumbles with his words, “Oh, uh, alright.”

“Maybe not for the child’s eyes,” he motions at Judith with his head.

Carl is slightly flushed as he says, “Well, fine, I guess… don’t mess with anything.”

“If Maggie, and Rick come downstairs, let me know,” Jesus says as he moves into the room.

“How did you know that?” Carl wonders, his gun lowering.

“I can hear two sets of feet upstairs,” Jesus says, “I just assumed.”

Carl watches Jesus fade behind the door, then turns back to the kitchen.

“Naughty stuff is not for you, is it?” he asks her, and the child in his arm erupts with squeals of laughter.

Jesus hopes to find more than he does in Daryl’s room. As soon as he enters, he’s struck with the compulsion to leave.

The space is not a bedroom, but an office transformed into something that is meant to resemble a bedroom. There’s a mattress on the floor with a few sheets, and one large, soft quilt. There’s a cardboard box of books in the corner of the room, but only one is out of its container. A compilation novel of James Thomson is lying by his bed. There’s a rack of clothes on the other end of the room beside the entrance, with an assortment of jackets, shirts, and pants lining it. It is, however, sparse.

The room itself is lacking. The only luxury is a lounge chair, draped with a knife inside its holster. A pack of cigarettes adorns the seat.  
Jesus quickly empties the box of books, and fills it with the mismatched print quilt, a personal selection of shirts, pants, and jackets, and the book lying untouched on the floor. He snatches up the cigarettes, and stuffs them in his pocket.

When he leaves the room, Rick and Maggie are in the living area.

“Were you in Daryl’s room?” Rick asks on contact.

“He wanted me to grab a few things,” Jesus replies sheepishly, “Sorry.”

“Don’t ask, Dad,” Carl says from the kitchen.

Rick glances back at his son, then to Jesus with a sedulously untrusting gaze.

“Anyways,” he says, looking at Maggie, “Go get Eric, and I’ll gather up your supplies. Abe, and Sasha will help me.”

“Thank you,” Maggie says, “I need to see a few people before I leave.” She turns to Jesus and swishes her head towards the door, and more gruffly says, “Let’s go.”

Jesus walks past Rick with a quick flash of a smile, then follows after Maggie. Once they’re outside Maggie turns to him.

“I told you to stay outside,” she scolds, “What happened?”

“I had to grab a few things for D—"

“Daryl didn’t ask you to grab those things.” She looks him up, and down as she walks, and says, “You’ve taken a liken to him, haven’t you?”

Jesus would throw up his hands if they weren’t handling a large box. “Is it such a crime to enjoy another man’s company?”

Maggie smirks, and shakes her head, “No, but you better listen to me next time I tell you to stay put. Rick doesn’t like you.”

“Really?” Jesus asks, “That’s… Okay, I guess that makes sense.”

“He especially doesn’t like that you’re snooping through Daryl’s room,” she looks at Jesus, “That’s his Daryl, you do know.”

Jesus restrains the inclination to click his heels.

“You’re all so possessive,” he shifts the box in his hands with a smirk, “It’s unhealthy, but cute.”

Maggie sighs, “Just hold the box, alright? Don’t even look at Carol.”

Jesus makes a thumbs up as best he can beneath the box, “I’m your dutiful lackey.”

“Maggie,” Rosita yells, “Oh my God.” Maggie turns around soon enough to catch Rosita’s hug head on. “I’ve missed you all so much. Is Daryl okay?”

“He’s good,” Maggie answers, her voice muffled by Rosita’s shirt.

Rosita pulls away, and asks, “How are you, girl? Has the doctor up there been taking care of you?”

“Harlan’s a good doctor, but I haven’t had a lot of time to think about the baby,” she admits, glancing over at Jesus. “I am, now, though.”

“Good,” Rosita says, a strong hand on Maggie’s shoulders, “Are you staying in Hilltop?”

Abraham and Sasha run up to them, and Rosita goes quiet. Her face takes on a stern, and reserved demeanor. Maggie doesn’t need an explanation.

“Maggie,” Abraham begins, “Are you alright, honey?”

“I killed Gregory, took Hilltop, and now I’m leading them,” Maggie smiles, “So, I would say I’m doing pretty good, all things considered.”

“Christ Maggie,” Sasha says, “You’ve been busy.”

“I won’t even ask how you did it,” Abraham announces, “I don’t put anything past your capabilities, Maggie.”

“Seriously,” Sasha agrees, “You got to check in on us though, you hear? With this asshole running the world, the last thing we need to do is split up.”

“You’re against splitting people up, really?” Rosita laughs.

Sasha stares, but doesn’t respond.

Abraham sighs, “Anyways, uhm,” he shakes his head, then looks back up at Maggie, “Don’t get too busy, ruling the roost, alright?”

Maggie smiles stiffly, “I won’t.”

Abraham nods, then glances over at Jesus, “Well, you’re just popping up everywhere, ain’t you?”

Jesus looks both ways then says, “I live a thrilling life, yes.”

“Don’t get fresh with me, boy,” Abraham exhorts.

“Abe, Rick’s waving us over,” Sasha says.

Abraham glances over at Rick loading up a car, his hand in the air.

“Alright, let’s skedaddle,” he tells her, then turns back to Maggie, “Love you, girl. And be careful. If you need anything, and I mean anything your heart dreams up, you come and get us. Glenn was—”

“I’ll let you know,” Maggie informs him, cutting his sentiments short.

He stops, realizing her deliberate actions. He takes the sign for what it is, and instead opts for a different form of concern. He points at Jesus, “Well, just watch this one, here.” 

Maggie nods her head, as Sasha is pulling her in for a farewell hug.

“Bye, Maggie,” she says with a reluctant half-smile, “I’m gonna miss you.”

Maggie shakes her head then turns back to Jesus, and Rosita.

Jesus looks at Rosita, and says, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this.”

Rosita scoffs, “You and me, both.”

“They’re an item now I suppose,” Maggie says to Rosita.

Rosita rolls her eyes, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Love is in the air.”

“It really is,” Maggie says, glancing at Jesus, “I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“So you’re staying in Hilltop? Fuck, I wish I could come,” Rosita curses, “But they need a doctor here. I’m the closest thing they have with Denise gone.”

“Ask Rick, maybe you can be our intermediary,” she suggests.

She huffs a breath of laughter, “I’ll try,” she looks at Maggie, and says, “Let me get your clothes up for you. You don’t need to be in there right now. It’s too soon.”

Maggie feels her body relax at the prospect of avoiding her own home. It’s backwards, but she couldn’t stand the sight of that three bedroom townhouse that once seemed so ideal. It holds memories that are too jagged to stomach. The last thing she needs is another reminder of what has happened, and what she’s done. She takes the hand of the woman in front of her, “Thank you, Rosita.”

Rosita smiles, “No problem,” she says. Then, in a very deep voice, “Keep your eye on this one.” She points directly at Jesus, then makes her way to Maggie’s house.

Maggie turns to Jesus, “You did okay there. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Jesus says with a spring of his feet.

“Let’s get Enid, and Eric, and then let’s get out of here,” she says, “We’ll talk to Carol, too. Let her know Daryl’s okay.”

They make their way to Carol’s residence. She is already hurrying out the door, with Michonne behind her.

“I was just telling Carol to come see you,” Michonne explains.

“What’s going on?” Carol asks, “How’s Daryl?” She glances over at the box in Jesus’ hands, “Why the hell do you have that blanket?”

Jesus looks up, then says, “Well, I thought he might want it. It’s very soft.”

“I know what it feels like,” Carol reposts, “I made it.” She looks back at Maggie, “So, he is okay?”

“He’s fine, now,” Maggie ensures her, “He’ll probably be back on his feet in a few weeks.”

“A few weeks is a few days for him,” she shakes her head, her mouth in a hard line, “I’d like to come with you, but Rick needs me here. A lot of our best men are in Hilltop.”

“I understand,” Maggie says, her hand finding Carol’s arm, “And, I think that’s the best decision.”

Carol nods, “Are you in charge there now?”

“By default,” Maggie responds, “Gregory’s gone, I got rid of him.”

“Fuck,” Michonne almost laughs, “That’s brutal, Maggie. Did you have a reason?”

“He betrayed us,” Maggie says, her answers growing shorter. Her head was tired of the explanations.

“That’s all I need to know,” Carol comments, “You did the right thing.”

Michonne nods in agreement.

“Take care of Daryl, alright?” Carol summarizes, “Tell him I’ll come see him as soon as possible.”

“I will,” Maggie guarantees, “You know, he asked the same thing. If you would come and see him sometimes. He said he misses you.”

“I miss him,” Carol smiles somberly, “And, tell him I definitely will.” She turns her head towards Jesus abruptly, her mouth forming into a tense glare, “And don’t let this fucker steal his blanket.”

Carol hugs Maggie, and Michonne does the same. When Maggie’s body slides from their grip, she sees Enid by the car Rick, Abraham, and Sasha are loading.

“Will you two get Eric for me?” She asks, her eyes moving before her feet even have the chance, “I’m going to see Enid.”

“Sure,” Michonne replies, looking to Carol, “C'mon.”

She begins moving hurriedly towards Enid, and Jesus keeps her pace.

“I don’t think it matters what I say,” Jesus concludes, “I think it’s something about my face.” He looks at Maggie from around the box in his arms, “Hey, are you okay?”  
“I’ve just had to explain three times how, and why I murdered a man,” she looks at Jesus, and her eyes portray her words clearly, “I’m tired, and I want to talk to Enid.”

Jesus nods, “Let’s get her, and get you home, then.”

Carl bustles up to Enid before Maggie can. He addresses her pointedly, and Maggie, and Jesus watch as her body snaps around to engage him. They are squabbling amongst themselves, but when Enid sees Maggie, she bolts over to her.

“Maggie,” she shouts, “I’m coming with you.”

“That’s what I was expecting,” Maggie says with a worn smile, “Let’s go home.”

“No,” Carl blurts, “I’m sorry, Maggie, but this is her home.”

“You locked me in a closet,” Enid accuses, turning on Carl again, “You’re done dictating my actions for me.”

“Honey,” Maggie says, cutting through the argument, “It’s your decision.”

“I’ve already packed my bags,” she answers, her face turning back to Maggie.

“You’re better off here,” Carl begs.

“She’s better off wherever she chooses to be,” Maggie asserts harshly. She looks back at Enid, “Grab your things. We’re leaving.”

“Carl,” Rick says, “Let her make her own decision. Maggie’s right.”

Carl takes a deep breath, and backs down. Enid hurries off to get her luggage, as Rosita approaches them.

“Here you go, Maggie,” she says, dragging a medium sized suitcase behind her, “It’s most of your stuff. I’ll bring whatever else you might need when I come to Hilltop.”

“You’re going too?” Rick asks, a hint of amusement to mask his concern. “I’m going to be the only one left here soon enough.”

Rosita looks at Rick as she hands Maggie her belongings, “I thought I could be a… intermediary, if that’s needed, you know.”

Rick nods, “I think it will be.”

“Are we ready?” Jesus asks.

Michonne, and Carol join them with Eric in tow, and he immediately runs up to Maggie with a bag in his arms.

“This is all we need for now,” he tells her, “Aaron is okay?”

“Yes,” Maggie says, “We’ll find a place for you two.”

Jesus opens the back door of the car, and shoves Daryl’s items in first. He shuts the door, and turns to Maggie, “Need me to drive?”

“Yes,” Maggie breathes. “Let’s go,” she says, turning to Enid and Eric.

Maggie slips into the passenger seat, and Jesus crawls behind the wheel. Eric and Enid slouch into the back, Daryl’s box crammed between them.

Rick walks over to Maggie’s window, “I’ll be in touch. Stay safe up there.”

Maggie nods, “There’s no staying safe, Rick, but… do stay in touch.”

Rick backs away from the car with a resigned nod. Jesus reverses the car, and steers down the road. He pulls through the gates of Alexandria, and they begin their ride home.

“Carl locked you in a closet?” Maggie asks, completely confused, “Why did he do that?”

“To keep me from going with you guys to take on the Saviors,” she answers, “He tricked me.”

“That’s borderline abusive,” Eric notifies her.

“That was definitely a dick move,” Jesus adds.

Enid looks out the window, “Yeah, well people who are dicks constantly make dick moves.”

“Carl isn’t a dick,” Maggie orders, “… But, that was a dick move.” She lays her hand on the arm rest, and proclaims, “Well, I think I’m going to take a nap.”

She begins to nod off after a few more minutes of driving, her head situated uncomfortably against the window. Jesus glances in the back seat, then sticks his hand behind the seat as far as it will reach. 

“Hand me that blanket,” he asks Enid.

She gathers the material in her arms, and pushes it into the space between the two front seats. Maggie stirs awake, and Jesus feeds it over her body.

“Here,” he says, “We’re gonna have an hour or so more to drive.”

Maggie bundles herself in the blanket, and says, “Thanks, but isn’t this Daryl’s?”

“I think we both know he wouldn’t mind,” Jesus assures her.

“That’s true,” Eric says, affirming Jesus’ statement, “He’d give you the shirt off his back, Maggie.”

She accepts the offer of comfort, and dozes back off after a short stretch of time.

Jesus look in the rear view mirror at Enid, and Eric, and asks, “How about some music?”

“There’s no radios anymore, dumbass,” Enid retorts.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Eric replies. Enid just shrugs.

“Okay,” Jesus says, looking in the overhead, “How about a CD?” He flips through a selection of discs wedged inside the slips above his head. He pulls one out without looking. “Barry Manilow, greatest hits?” He offers, “Some good stuff on here.”

Eric looks at Enid, then to Jesus’ back, and says, “Personally, I’m a big fan.”

“Perfect!” Jesus declares, pushing the CD in the car’s player.

A song begins trickling out, and Eric turns back to Enid, “Oh, this is a good one. You’ll like this.”

Enid sighs slowly, “I’m sure.”

Jesus, and Eric sway to “Can’t Smile Without You”. Jesus’ occasional steering wheel drum solo, is complimented by Eric’s less than impeccable backing vocals. They keep the song on repeat until they reach Hilltop.


	11. Evince

****

# Chapter 11

# 

****

****

# Evince

# 

****

 

“Hello,” Jesus croons, a certain brevity to his voice. He cups his hand against the door frame. His backpack is slung over the other shoulder, and his posture is as inviting as ever.

If Daryl wasn’t as remotely acquainted with the man barging in on him as he was, he may be feeling safely circumspect. As it stands, he does know Jesus, and all he feels is a quaking uneasiness. He assumes that this seemingly breezy entrance had been in a mental blue print stage for weeks, and so he decides to humor himself.

There was no worse death for people like Jesus than to fall on their own, haughty swords.

Daryl doesn’t respond, but curls further down into his blanket.

Jesus, however, is no stranger to a verbal rebound. He triumphs forward.

“I’m sorry to just walk in on you,” he prefaces, “But I figured you may need some company.”

Daryl’s eyes narrow on the man cautiously creeping into his room. “I’m not like you. Silence don’t scare me.”

Jesus’s eyes bounce from Daryl, over to the wall beside him, and his lip upturns for a visual of the introspectiveness he feels. “Hmm, that’s almost an insult.”

Daryl feels an overwhelming urge to vault out the nearest window. Instead, he barricades himself around a patchwork quilt. “If you wanna take it like an insult, be my guest.”

Jesus laughs, “Your hostility is so charming, but I come baring gifts.”

Daryl scoots forward, his body still tense with the uncertainty of interaction. He’s a dog, vigilant, but ever enticed at the whiff of anything worthwhile.

“I don’t care,” he ensures Jesus, “If you got something for me, you can leave it over there.” He points limply with his free hand at a table positioned against the wall. There’s a vase of flowers, and a card already gracing its surface.

Jesus glances at it, then back to Daryl, “You’re popular.”

Daryl shrugs as best he can, “I’m nice to people, and they’re nice back.”

“I wouldn’t know much about that, right?” Jesus asks, thoroughly amused.

Daryl sighs, “Do you enjoy assuming things? Turning my words around?”

Jesus acts as if he may be asking himself that with legitimacy.

“Yes,” he finally answers, “Can I come in?”

Daryl nods, and watches as Jesus flows over to him with an aura of pure elation.

As Jesus fits himself into the chair by Daryl’s side, he scans the covers that layer him. “Are you enjoying your quilt?”

Daryl touches the fabric which his body is hidden beneath, “You’re the one who brought it? I thought it was Maggie.”

“Nope, that was me,” Jesus amends.

Daryl is hesitant, but replies, “Well, thank you.”

Jesus nods, “It was no problem.”

“Do you still have a crush on me?” Daryl asks tersely, being mindful to add a sprinkle of enmity to balance his overt gratitude. Daryl didn’t desire to be rude, but instead brusque with his words. One was unnecessary, and one was a privilege of candidness. In a way, Jesus should feel honored.

“I don’t know,” Jesus returns, “You don’t give me much hope.”

“Maybe that’s a sign,” Daryl suggests.

“I see signs everywhere,” Jesus counters, his hands splaying out as though he’s releasing doves. “I think it’s a sign you even let me come in here.”

“I can call Denise if you step out of line,” Daryl warns with an only slightly perceptible smirk, “What do you got?”

“Okay,” Jesus tugs his book bag around to rest on his lap, “Your friend Aaron told me you enjoy reading.”

“My friend Aaron hates you,” Daryl reveals with a rather indulgent disposition.

“Hates?” Jesus asks, lying his hands against the bag, “That seems a little strong.”

“Alright,” Daryl placates, “How about, he just thinks I need to stay the hell away from you?”

Jesus quirks his head, “Admittedly, that’s probably not bad advice.”

“Aaron is a good friend,” Daryl says, “He gives me a lot of good advice.”

Jesus gestures with his head to the array of condolences across the room, “Did he give you those flowers, too?”

Daryl shakes his head, “No, those were from Eric,” he smiles faintly, “He likes to give me things.” He lets out a dull, condensed laugh, and adds, “He’s into stuff like that. Sentimental shit…”

“Are you into, uh, into sentimental shit?” he asks, a novel misstep from his ordinarily elite fashion of speaking. Daryl doesn’t let the motion go unnoticed.

“Are you?” He counters.

Jesus looks as though that question pricks at something larger, and much harder to explain. “I think that I enjoy people. I see sentiment in other people, not things.”

“That’s real neat,” Daryl says listlessly, “What’d you get me?”

He unzips the bag, and pulls out a book that is familiar to Daryl’s eye.

“James Thomson is your type of poet, huh?” Jesus asks, the novel folded between his hands.

“Michonne gave it to me,” he informs him, “I haven’t got a chance to read it… give it here,” he motions with a primitive thrust of his hand.

“Sure,” He says, gifting him the book without hesitation, “I brought it because I thought you might like to have it.”

Daryl reaches for it, and pulls it over to rest on his stomach.

“I’ve already read it,” Jesus says with a humble smile, “Would you like to discuss it sometime?”

“Are you trying to start a book club with me, or something?” Daryl asks.

He tips his head left, and right, “Well, I mean, sort of, yes.”

Daryl shakes his head, “I don’t get your angle.”

Jesus sighs, his smile now tired, “Usually, when someone enjoys the company of someone else, they try to get to know each other.”

“Such a foreign concept,” Daryl says low in throat. He raises his voice to elaborate, “That’s not what I’m getting at, and you know it.”

Jesus laughs, “Are you really asking me why I want to be around you?”

Daryl bristles, “You’re always on your toes, but I can’t be? That’s pretty hypocritical.”

“Well, I’m known to be hypocritical.” Jesus leans back in his chair, “You know, usually it’s not until the seventh, sometimes eighth date, that I get asked that question.”

“What made you think this is a date?” He questions, a real sense of doubt beneath the incense.

“If you really want to know what I like best about you—”

“I didn’t say you had to list my best qualities,” Daryl squawks.

“I will,” Jesus offers.

“No, thank you,” Daryl responds, “I changed my mind.”

“About what?” Jesus sits up in his chair.

“I don’t care why you want to hang around me, or why you want to…” he looks at the bedspread, “… whatever.”

Jesus nods, “Does whatever mean—?”

“It means whatever.” Daryl says bluntly.

“Ah, okay,” Jesus settles. His mind begins to turn in another direction, and he asks, “Does Aaron really dislike me?”

“He knows you like me,” Daryl says quietly, “Denise does, too.” He looks up at Jesus, and says, “Thanks for being so subtle.”

“In all honesty, I thought I was,” Jesus admits, a flush of alarm on his face. “God, I hope I haven’t always been this… overt.”

Daryl doesn’t respond, but picks up the book on his stomach. He creaks the cover open with his finger, and props it against his thumb.

“How did you read it this fast?” He asks, distracted by the epilogue.

“When Maggie, and I went to Alexandria yesterday I went through your room, and I found it. I’ve been reading it since,” Jesus concludes with a hint of pride.

“You went into my fucking room?” Daryl spits, “Why?”

“You live with Michonne, Rick, and his son,” Jesus explains, “I thought that privacy wasn’t an issue for you.”

“Oh my God,” Daryl breathes with dismay, “Is that where you got my blanket from, too?”

“I think you’re just irritable because your room is going to be turned into a nursery,” Jesus proposes, “How sweet.” He pulls a breakfast bar from the bag, then rests it on the floor by his leg. “Want one? I have more.”

“No,” Daryl states, “Not from you.”

“It’s not like granola tastes any better depending on who it’s from,” Jesus says with an elevating sense of annoyance. “You’d think I cursed your lands, murdered your children.”

“Don’t get crumbs on my bed,” Daryl warns.

Jesus rolls his eyes, and says through a mouthful of oats, “You’re always so hateful with me.”

“I am nice, considering,” Daryl mumbles, his gaze back on the pages of his book.

“Considering what?” Jesus asks, lying the snack in his lap, “Considering that I’m a stranger?”

“Yes,” Daryl answers.

Jesus lifts his arms to his head, and begins looping his hair into a bun. Daryl glances over, and is fixated by the practice. Once Jesus is finished, he picks the foil wrapper containing his collation back up.

“How did you do that so easy?” Daryl asks, his mouth stunned, and moving without recourse from his brain.

Jesus points to his hair, “This?”

“Yeah,” Daryl pushes a piece of hair from his eyes, “I… it stays out of your face that way?”

Jesus looks as though Daryl is speaking tongues, “Yeah, you … you use a hair band, and you just sort of, do it, I guess.” He lets his hand fall into his lap, “You’ve never seen someone do that before?”

Daryl sighs, “I’m not an idiot. I just didn’t know it was that easy.”

Jesus smirks, “Would you like me to put your hair up for you?”

Daryl’s face is contemplative of the temptation. Jesus awaits a response with as much dutiful patience as he can garner.

“I guess,” Daryl decides. He combs his fingers through his hair hastily, and lets it flop back into his face. “Is it long enough?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jesus says, moving from his chair, to the side of Daryl’s bed. He ducks down, and pulls a band out of the side pocket of his bag. “I hoard these,” he tells Daryl with a gleefulness, “They can be hard to find.”

Daryl sits up in his bed, letting his novel slip beside him.

Jesus stands, and says, “Actually, I need to be behind you, probably.” He walks to the back end of Daryl’s bedframe, and says, “I think if I put my arms around you, you may bite me.”

“If I was going to do that, I would’ve already,” Daryl concedes, “But, I still wouldn’t push it.”

Jesus runs his fingers through Daryl’s hair, and catechizes, “Do you ever shower?”

“Is this necessary?” Daryl cross-questions.

“I could try to do this without touching you, but… we may be here awhile, with me having to reinstate a new method of physics, and all.”

“Then go ahead,” Daryl grants, “I’d hate to be here awhile.”

Jesus pulls Daryl’s hair into a ponytail with a deft touch. Daryl can’t help but feel squeamish beneath the contact. Every time Jesus’ fingers brush his neck, he feels an anxiousness in his gut. It’s a nuisance to say the least.

He steps away, and moves to stand in front of Daryl. “How do you feel? Have you been reborn?”

“I hope not,” Daryl says beneath his breath, touching the tied hair behind his head. He pats the strands gently, then swishes his head back and forth. “It does stay put,” he admits.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Jesus says, sitting back down, “I’ll teach you sometime.”

“I think everything you do, you do fancy,” Daryl points out, “I’m not sure about that.”

Jesus smirks, and sighs with a gentle chuckle. “Do you know what Trompe L’oeil means?”

“See, here we go,” Daryl says, adjusting his covers.

“It’s a term, in art, a French name. It’s a style of painting that’s supposed to invoke illusion.”

“I’m such a big fan of French art styles that invoke illusion,” Daryl discloses with a scathing sarcasm, his eyes reverting back to his book.

Jesus glances at him, then continues, “I think if I were a genre of art, I would be Trompe L’oeil. I think I portray more than I really am at times.”

Daryl looks back up at him, then down, “What, like, your personality?”

Jesus motions around with his hand, “Everything. Everything I am, you know. I think I do everything in my power to be more exciting, more… inviting. An interesting person.”

Daryl nods, “You just don’t want to be boring. It’s probably why you felt the need to learn what… that word… meant.”

“You can’t blame me,” Jesus expounds, “No one likes boring. No one needs boring.”

“Someone needs boring,” Daryl counters, “There’s a lot of boring people who are happy.”

“Well, by all accounts, I am boring,” Jesus admits, crossing his leg to let his ankle rest against his knee. He tucks his hands beneath his arms, and continues, “The glorious painting above. You feel like you could just soar right through it until you hit it, and it’s just another ceiling. A pretty, intricate ceiling, sure, but… still far from limitless.”

“Are you comparing yourself to a roof?” Daryl asks with flustered confusion.

Jesus uncrosses his legs, and leans forward, “I’m comparing myself to art. Even more pretentious.”

Daryl is silent for a moment, then encourages him with, “It was a nice image.”

“I think you think I’m very complex, and deep, and blah, blah, blah,” Jesus says, sitting back in his chair, “But, I’m actually, painfully, easy to understand.”

“Well, I know that,” Daryl blurts, a little too confident than he had intended.

Jesus quirks his head, “Really?”

Daryl cracks his neck out, then answers him. “Just because no one’s figured you out yet doesn’t mean you’re complicated. Everyone else is just lazy.”

“Are you trying to say you care about me enough to analyze me?” Jesus says with a smirk, his gaze lowered on Daryl.

“You’re always fishing for a compliment, ain’t you?” Daryl asks.

“Almost always,” Jesus admits with a flippant lift of his wrist. He moves his fingers to his head, to align a few straggling pieces of hair back down.

Daryl picks up his book with his free hand. “I’m going to read this,” he says without making eye contact with Jesus, “You can stay, and be quiet, or leave, and be whatever you want.”

Jesus plunges his hand down into his backpack, and pulls out a book of his own, and with his other hand, a battery operated CD player.

“Somehow I knew you’d have all that in there,” Daryl mumbles, flipping a page.

Jesus sticks his headphones in, and whispers, “I would answer you, but you said I couldn’t so,” he shrugs, and pulls his book up into his lap. He lays the CD player on the edge of Daryl’s bed, and opens to a dog-eared page.

After a few, floating minutes, Daryl becomes aware of Jesus’ humming.

He smacks the book lightly, “Quit.”

Jesus tugs one earphone out, “What?”

“You’re humming. That’s not quiet.”

“I didn’t know the stipulations of being quiet,” he defends.

“Now you do,” Daryl informs him, “So cut it out.”

Jesus puts a hand up in mitigation, “I’m silent as a mouse from now on.”

Daryl goes back to his book, then adds, “Maybe if it wasn’t a shitty song, I could forgive you.”

“Excuse you!” Jesus snaps playfully, tossing the book on the bed, “The Doors are one of the best bands to ever exist.”

“No they’re not,” Daryl responds flatly.

“You honestly don’t like The Doors? Honestly?” Jesus begs with an intense, but jocular timorousness in Daryl’s character.

“Honestly,” Daryl says, looking at Jesus, “They’re boring.”

“Oh, you’re making me insecure,” Jesus confesses, “I can’t open up to you about anything, Daryl.” He shakes his head, “Who is worthy for your ears then?”

“I’m not telling you,” Daryl says with a grin, “You’ll bring their whole discovery next time you come see me.”

“Next time?” Jesus asks, “So, there will be a next time?”

“I figured you’ll be back, yeah,” Daryl states.

“So confident in yourself,” Jesus brags, “I guess you can be when you look like that.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, “Yeah, I just exude it.”

“Okay, back to silence before you banish me from your room,” Jesus suggests.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Daryl blurts, “You go in rooms you’re not wanted anyways.”

“That wasn’t explicitly stated,” Jesus defends, positioning his finger at Daryl.

“It’s always explicitly stated,” Daryl confirms, “It just goes without saying.”

“Alright, alright,” Jesus says, “I’m sorry. No more invasion of your personal space.”

“Like that wasn’t something you would avoid before,” Daryl scoffs, “You’re right, back to silence.”

Jesus nods, “Back to great music. Legendary music, even.” He pops the headphone back in with a defiance.

Daryl reads to the peaceful tinkling of keys from the radio, over a muffled broadcast of Morrison Hotel. He sits with a solitary contentment until Denise visits to distribute his medication. Jesus slips out the door as she administers her care, his backpack hanging loosely from his shoulder.

He isn’t fond of the admission, but the evening had been elevated by the element of Jesus. He wasn’t particularly thankful, but he did feel something. It was duller than enthusiasm, but stronger than tolerance. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the feeling wasn’t unpleasant.

Daryl, as he previously knew himself, may have shied away from the sensation. Daryl, as he is, knows that he must accept the urge to embrace it.

While confined to his bed, he had realized something particularly frightening.

He didn’t feel like Daryl anymore. He knew himself, and was confident in his purest essence. He wasn’t becoming another person, but he could not deny that he was misplaced from his older self. He didn’t know if the advancement was advancement at all, or if this shifting was even permissible. There was a sense in his being that his authorization meant little. The passage of one state of mind to the next was already in effect.

Daryl had slipped into it like a shaft, and now he had to navigate his way out. He knew that he would never see the older version of himself again, but he could focus on understanding the new. He had to find the light at the end of the tunnel, and he had to be unafraid to do so.

It wore his mind in the worst ways to consider any of this, but he had no choice. Trapped beneath the steel bars of his sheets, he was at the mercy of his own thoughts.

Facing Jesus head on was a small step down a dark, and disorienting path that was all but familiar to him, but it was a step.

Several steps will lead him places. That’s all that Daryl has.

The medications ease his body into hibernation, and he closes his eyes still trying to determine what his emotions on the eventide may be.

Success, he decides on before his mind goes blank. A meager, yet steady success.


	12. Acquiescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Hello! This is the twelfth chapter that I had planned on posting with the other three. However, I decided to modify it a bit, and post it together with chapter 13. 
> 
> I hope you guys love it! Seeing all the kudos, and comments I recieve on my work is always so inspiring! So thank you all for the feedback, and as always happy reading!

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# Chapter 12

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# Acquiescence

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“So, you’re dating now?” Aaron asks, a scrupulous look set on his face.

“How the hell did you get to that conclusion?” Daryl snaps, “I’m going for a walk to get some exercise, not ‘cause of some infatuation.”

Eric makes a sigh of fondness, “Oh, Aaron you’re being harsh. I think it’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet, and it’s not a date,” Daryl rebukes. “The only reason I have to go out with him is because ya’ll are too busy planting tomatoes, and shit.”

“We’re helping Maggie set up a more sound agricultural system,” Aaron corrects him sternly, “And there’s more than just tomatoes.” 

“Be quiet,” Eric scolds, “You’re being an ass, Daryl. Just accept a situation for what it is, will you?”

“I will accept it for what it is when it is what it is,” Daryl declares, then quirks his head.

“I think it is already what it is,” Aaron says with a sigh.

“Why are you both talking so cryptically?” Eric asks the room more than Aaron, and Daryl. “I mean, it’s a date. Let’s call it a date.”

“A date assumes were dating, and that’s ridiculous,” Daryl claims, “Now I don’t even wanna go.”

“See,” Eric says turning to Aaron, “I told you we shouldn’t even ask. He always gets this way about things.”

“I don’t get any way about anything,” Daryl mumbles.

“I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to my boyfriend. My boyfriend, like what Jesus is to you. A boyfriend,” Eric explains.

“I’m going to stay in bed,” Daryl decides.

“You’re being so fragile,” Aaron says, moving across the room to the sink, “I’m wrong, alright? It’s not a date, and you’re not dating, and Jesus is just a friend.”

“Barely that,” Daryl corrects.

Eric huffs, “You’re babying him right now.”

“Eric,” Daryl begins, “How do I put a jacket on with this?” He points to his sling.

Eric walks over to Daryl positioned on the edge of the bed, and takes the coat from his hands. “You’re going to have to drape it over. That can be very stylish.” He hangs the outer wear over Daryl’s shoulders, and steps back.

“Aaron, doesn’t he look good?” Eric asks, “Can I zhoosh up your hair, or no?”

Aaron walks up behind Eric with a glass of water, and shakes his head, “You look very nice. Very Parisian.”

“He does like French words,” Daryl comments. Eric smirks, and Daryl sighs, then almost shouts, “Ya’ll make me regret every word I say! I can’t even say his name without it being some—some indication of my undying love.”

“Humor Eric,” Aaron pleas, sitting the glass down on a table next to Daryl’s flowers. “All our friends are dead, and gone. He has no one left to set up.”

Eric sighs, “God, that’s so depressing, but it’s also so true.”

“I’m being lenient,” Daryl pushes his hair out of his face, “I could’ve told ya’ll to fuck off an hour ago.”

“Can I fix the hair?” Eric reiterates, and Daryl gives in.

“Yes, fine, since ya’ll are guilting me… all your dead friends, or whatever.”

Eric dumps his body on the bed beside Daryl, and begins messing with the tangle of dark locks on his head.

“What does he even have to do, anyways?” Aaron asks, “We’re not going on a run for another two days, and Maggie is busy helping Enid get along here. He’s probably just sitting there outside his trailer, waiting.”

“He’s probably hiding in a cabinet somewhere in here,” Daryl guesses.

“He’s so… sneaky,” Aaron decides, “I just… I don’t know how I feel.”

“He’s mysterious!” Eric says with a flourish, “That’s cool, that’s sexy. Let Daryl live his life, Aaron.”

“See, I thought I made it clear I wasn’t dating him,” Daryl chimes in.

“Look, with all these Saviors running around, I am keenly aware of everything, and everyone,” Aaron justifies. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s up to something.”

“He seems trickier than he is,” Daryl assures him. “Hey, can you put it in, like, a band?” he asks, glancing up at the fingers in his hair.

“Of course,” Eric responds, “Aaron, look in that drawer for a rubber band, or something.”

Aaron darts to the cabinet next to the sink, and starts shucking open the drawers.

“I like it out of my face, sometimes,” Daryl tells Eric.

“I don’t know how you ever let it dangle in your face like that,” Eric closes his eyes, and shakes his head with a disgusted noise. “God, that would annoy me.”

“It’s nice to hide behind sometimes,” Daryl elaborates, “But, sometimes it is annoying.”

Eric nods, “I understand,” he touches Daryl’s head, and looks at his hair, “Your face is so beautiful, though, it’s good to let it show sometimes.”

“I got one,” Aaron announces, bringing it over to Eric between his fingers.

Eric takes it from him, and examines it. “Aaron, this is a rubber gasket.”

“I thought it could work,” Aaron says, baffled.

Eric stands, and looks to Daryl, “Give me one second.” He leaves the room, and disappears down the narrow hall.

“How’s Maggie?” Daryl asks.

“She’s good, and I don’t really know how to feel about it.” Aaron divulges, “I think she’s on autopilot.”

“That’s not bad,” Daryl responds, “It’s better than most reactions she could have.”

Aaron shrugs, “Yeah, but you can’t coast forever. She’s bargaining with herself, I think. She’s convinced if she can take down Negan, or lead this place right, than it will all go away.”

“I’d rather that than her shut down,” Daryl says, “Hell, I’d rather her shoot a couple more Gregory’s than her shut down.”

“Well, I’d rather her kill a few more Gregory’s just to rid the world of people like Gregory,” Aaron says, diverted.

Eric returns to the room with a pair of scissors, and a ring of medical gauze. “I’m going to improvise,” he informs Daryl.

He reclaims his spot on the bed, and unfurls the wrap. He twists it around Daryl’s hair, then cuts the piece off. He ties the strip of fabric together, and places the remaining roll on the bed. 

“That’s great!” He says, “You’re good to go, now.”

Aaron nods, “That worked much better than the gasket would have.”

“You think?” Eric asks sardonically. He turns his attention back to Daryl, “Is that good?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” Daryl says, reaching back to assess Eric’s work. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Eric assures, standing from the bed, “Are you feeling alright?”

Daryl stands abrasively just to affirm his next words, “I’m fine.”

“Take it easy,” Aaron advises, “Eric and I are going to eat breakfast with Maggie. She wants us to mingle with everyone.”

“Come see us when you guys get back,” Eric requests, “This is honestly better than television.”

“Alright, get out of my way,” Daryl says lightheartedly pushing past them.

“Don’t be out too late, either,” Aaron calls, and Daryl flips him off as he stomps out the door.

Jesus is sitting on the mansion steps where he said he would be.

“Are you ready?” Jesus asks, “This is the first time you’ve left the bed since your injury, right? What’s it been, four days?”

“Yeah, but I’m fine,” Daryl ensures roughly, “It only bothers me if I don’t take the meds.”

“You’re so rugged,” Jesus says, “Maybe we should do something even more strenuous.”

Daryl smirks, “I’m being nice going on a walk with you. It’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Jesus balks, “How so?”

“Everyone thinks we’re dating,” Daryl sighs, “I can’t even defend myself.”

“It is hard to defend yourself when you’re going on a walk with the guy you’re claiming to despise,” Jesus concurs.

“I don’t… claim to despise you,” Daryl groans, “I just claim to not date you. Which is true.”

“True for now,” Jesus predicts. “Soon, my homosexuality will infect you. Much like a deadly virus,” he says matter-of-factly.

“If that were true, I think I would’ve already caught it from Aaron and Eric,” Daryl replies.

“I’m a gay powerhouse,” Jesus claims, “They were just warming you up.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” Daryl says with a grin.

Jesus shrugs, “Just warning you of the adverse side effects of your actions.”

“Ah, okay,” Daryl grumbles with a shake of his head.

“We got it, Jesus,” Kal calls down as they reach the gate, and Eduardo signals his agreeance with a thumb in the air.

“Thanks,” Jesus yells up at them both, and Daryl gives them a nod.

“I feel like I should have brought more than one gun,” Daryl admits, after they’ve walked a ways from the wall.

“You only have one free hand,” Jesus counters, “That would’ve just been impractical.”

“Yeah, but one for you, too,” Daryl says, “You don’t ever carry weapons.”

“I have a lot under this trench,” Jesus informs him.

“Well, please,” Daryl groans, “Keep it to yourself.”

“I hadn’t planned on flashing you, but,” Jesus opens his coat, and reveals a strap of sheathed knives on his thigh, “Pretty cool, huh?”

Daryl stares down at it, and snorts, “You throw knives at guns?”

“I throw knives faster than guns,” Jesus corrects him, “I can do a lot with these.”

“I won’t believe that until I see you in action,” Daryl concedes, resuming his step.

Jesus quirks his head, and lets his coat fall back over his body, “Okay, we’ll see.”

“Do you consider yourself a ninja?” Daryl asks.

Jesus laughs, “No, I don’t.”

“Just checking,” Daryl explains.

“Do you have medical gauze in your hair?” Jesus asks in return.

“Yes, I do,” Daryl responds.

Jesus puts his hands up, “Just checking.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, “Thanks for my clothes,” he recognizes, “I was getting tired of that white shirt Denise had me in.”

“I think a day without leather, or jean is a fate worse than death for you,” Jesus theorizes.

“I’ll have you know I can be real fancy when I need to be,” Daryl threatens, “Just not many opportunities to dress in tails nowadays.”

“I thought you were strictly opposed to my fancy nature, and fanciness in general?” Jesus kids.

Daryl shakes his head, “I think you’re over the top, that’s got nothing to do with how I dress.” He looks at Jesus, “You know, I should still be mad you were rooting through my room.”

“Daryl,” Jesus coos, “The past is the past! It’s a new day. I think you’re the one who’s being over the top now.”

“You must’ve been in, like, politics or something,” Daryl presumes, “You’re too good at twisting my words around to have not been.”

“Far from it,” Jesus rectifies, “I spent the biggest part of my life on a commune.”

“A what?” Daryl crows, “You were in a cult?”

“It wasn’t a cult,” Jesus corrects him promptly, “It was a happy place. We were advocates of peace.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daryl draws, “Don’t try and indoctrinate me. I bet you led it.”

“It wasn’t a cult, and I didn’t lead it,” Jesus reiterates, his voice gaining a serious edge.

Daryl takes heed, and says, “Alright, well what’d you do in your peace, love and happiness …commune?”

“We used, what I’ll call, preemptive measures to promote peace,” Jesus recites.

Daryl grins, “Was that ya’ll’s slogan?”

“Yes, but—” Jesus stops suddenly, and puts his hand over Daryl’s chest, “Do you hear that?” Daryl draws his gun, but Jesus shakes his head. “Don’t shoot anyone.”

“I’ll shoot who I need to keep us safe,” Daryl whispers.

“You’ll just make it worse,” Jesus responds quietly, his eyes flickering around them, and hand still firm against the man beside him.

“Don’t move,” a voice says from the left.

Jesus turns swiftly and tosses a knife at the man’s knee before he can press the trigger. He gasps out in pain, and ducks his body down. Jesus glides over to him, and slams his foot against the back of the man’s head, simultaneously relieving him of his gun.

He unloads it, and slings it behind him.

“Who are you with?” He asks, but the man rises with a guttural yell, a knife glistening in his hand. He swoops it out at Jesus, but Jesus slams his palm into the back of the man’s hand, knocking the weapon free. He plants his fist into the man’s throat, and sends him toppling to the ground with ease.

“Who are you with?” He asks again.

Daryl hears footsteps behind him, and aims his gun.

Dwight has a crossbow aimed at his head a few feet away.

“Put it down, alright? We’re not here for a fight unless you create one.” Dwight adjusts the bow in his hand, “C’mon, man.”

“What the fuck do you want?” Daryl demands, his gun gripped tight between his fingers. He’s waging within himself the consequences of taking the shot.  
“Put it down, Daryl,” Jesus advises, “If they’re not here for a fight, we don’t need to start one.”

“Your buddy’s right,” Dwight says, “We just came to pay a visit.”

“Nah,” Daryl breathes, “You’re one sorry sack of shit that’s been a pain in my ass since the day we met. I’ll die right here before you catch me surrendering to you again.”

Daryl watches Dwight’s eyes transform from a dour plea of understanding, to cautious fear of what’s in front of him. Daryl assumes it’s his menacing bearing, until a voice resounds from beyond his shoulder.

“Well, you will certainly fucking surrender to me,” Negan broadcasts, his feet crunching closer to them.

Daryl’s heart sinks. His head feels as light as a feather, and his stomach boils with hate. The fact that he is bound to another situation that leaves him vulnerable is devastatingly difficult to embrace. Powerlessness is a pill that’s becoming harder, and harder to swallow. With every craven move he’s pressured to make, the fire within him wanes.

Negan is chipping away at him.

“Are you fucking serious? Do I need to beat this guy’s head in, too?” Negan points his bat at Jesus, “Don’t be a fucking dumbass. There’s so many fucking dumbasses. Be different,” he almost pleads.

Daryl doesn’t need to verify with his eyes who Negan is threatening to know that it is Jesus. He lowers the gun.

“No, you stupid, Dixie motherfucker,” He clarifies, “Give it to phantom of the opera over there.”

Daryl grits his teeth, and extends the weapon outwards.

“Wow, good to know you’re not totally fucking illiterate,” Negan says, with a passing swing of Lucille, “Now, let’s go. I’m here to talk to your new head honcho,” Negan quirks his head, “Does ‘honcho’ apply to women, too? I don’t fucking know. Isn’t that Spanish? Don’t they assign fucking genders to shit?”

Daryl stares at Dwight as the man relieves him of his gun. He promises him, “I will kill you when I get the chance.”

“Whatever, asshole,” Dwight grunts.

Negan looks down at the man bleeding in front of Jesus. “Thank you so fucking much for putting a knife through his leg.” He leers at him, “Why do you always look like you’re waiting to piss someone off?”

Jesus’ face stays neutral as he says, “Maybe you’re self-reflecting.”

“Maybe,” Negan attests, “But, either way, you’re still a dick.” He whistles, and ten Saviors scurry from the surrounding foliage. “Let’s go!”

Daryl breaks his gaze with Dwight slowly, then turns to walk beside Jesus. He places his hand on the small of his back, and says “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not,” he says below a whisper, “Negan’s in a good mood. He’s not here to kill anyone, as far as I can tell.”

“Comforting,” Daryl responds. 

“Don’t talk,” Dwight spits, the crossbow nudging Daryl’s back, “Just walk.”

Negan looks back at Daryl, and asks, “You know, last time I saw you, you looked like shit warmed over, and shat on again. Almost put you out of your fucking misery. You had that ugly fucking sweater, blanket, poncho or whatever over you, too. Is that like, your trademark, or some shit?”

Daryl doesn’t respond, and Negan continues, “Did you bring it from home, or some shit?” He remains quiet, and Negan sighs with disappointment. “Fine, don’t talk. Make the walk home uncomfortable for everyone.”

When they reach the gate, Negan snaps, and a Savior hustles Jesus to stand in front of them. Daryl follows, but is stopped by Dwight.

“Stay put,” Dwight commands, and all Daryl can do is seethe.

“Okay, open it up or I’ll kill him, you know how it goes,” Negan says, boredom consuming his tone.

Kal and Eduardo glance at each other, then back to Negan. The gate rolls open, and he shoves Jesus forward alongside him.

Bertie sees them approach, and immediately runs to Maggie’s office.

“This place is always so fucking quaint,” Negan shakes his head, “It almost sucks having to ransack the holy shit out of it.”

Jesus glances back at Daryl, and he holds his gaze.

Maggie stomps out of the mansion, with Aaron, Tara, Eric, and Denise behind her. Enid exists the house, but Maggie turns to her.

“Stay inside, alright?” She instructs her, “Get the rifle from upstairs, and find a good view. If something goes south, you take the best shot you see, okay?”

Enid nods, “Okay.” She glances at them all, then hurries back into the mansion.

The rest of the colony has quickly gathered nearby in curious panic.

“Okay,” Negan says, “For starters, sorry about your husband.”

Maggie stops in front of him sharply, and her body is almost shaking with rage.

Aaron glances at Daryl, and then to Maggie. Tara, and Denise’s eyes follow a similar pattern.

“Secondly, sorry about killing your kid’s dad,” Negan puts his hand out, “I probably wouldn’t have taken that into consideration beforehand, but still.”

“What do you want?” Maggie growls.

“I’m here to make sure the deal still stands,” Negan answers simply, “And, listen, I usually have to line everyone up, the whole fucking shebang, and you know,” he makes a guttural noise. “But, I fucking hated, and I mean hated, that guy. Gregory was so, so fucking annoying.” he glances at Dwight, “Genuinely, he was the definition of a pussy.”

“We want Craig back,” Maggie demands.

“Wait, what?” Negan booms, “Who the ever-loving-fuck is Craig? I’ve never heard that name before in my life.”

“Ethan’s brother,” Maggie elucidates, “You were holding him as a bargaining chip against Gregory. Well, I killed Gregory, so there’s no reason you should still have him.”

Negan backs up, “Shit,” he admits, “You’re kind of threatening.”

“You want our shit, and all we want in return is a man you really don’t need,” Maggie continues.

“Well, that’s the fucking truth,” Negan declares, “I don’t even know who Craig is. Like, still,” he adds.

“Once you do, send him back to us. The deal will still stand,” Maggie confirms.

Negan nods leisurely, “You’re pretty good at this. Honestly? I love to see a woman in charge. I’m sort of proud.”

“Don’t be,” Maggie retorts.

He sighs, “Alright, I’ll send you fuck face Craig, and you keep up the arrangement I made with Gregory. Whoop-tee-fucking-doo. You have yourself a deal.” Negan directs his attention to the Hilltop residents watching from the sidelines, “See? Look at me negotiating. I can be a nice guy when you’re not actively fucking me over.”

Dwight releases Daryl, and he thrashes away from him. Daryl moves up behind Jesus, and takes his arm. 

“Alright,” Negan announces, “I’m ready to go home.” He looks at Maggie, and reminds her, “I’ll be back in four days.”

“We’ll be ready, then,” Maggie responds, her fists balled at her side.

Negan escorts himself out, along with his pack of Saviors. 

Aaron runs up to Daryl as soon as Negan’s back has turned. “Are you alright?” He asks, “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“No,” Jesus replies for him, “Negan is reasonable when you do what he says.” He sighs, “Unfortunately, what he asks you to do is usually unreasonable.”

“Daryl?” Eric says, “Answer us, are you okay?”

Daryl shakes his head, “I remembered something about that guy, Dwight.”

“What do you mean?” Tara asks, moving up beside Eric.

Maggie shutters, and Denise places her hand on her back, “You handled that perfectly, Maggie.”

Crystal breaks from the crowd of wandering eyes, and catches Maggie’s glare. “Thank you,” she says, walking over to stand in front of Maggie, “Thank you… for helping Craig.” She lays her arms around Maggie in a lose hug, and Maggie reciprocates the action.

Crystal releases Maggie, and tears begin to spill from her, “I believed you were good for this place, and now I see that’s true.”

Maggie nods, “We’re going to make this place invincible. Don’t you worry.”

“I’ve never seen him before,” Bertie says to Denise, “He lived up to my expectations. A total piece of shit.”

“No kidding,” Denise responds. 

Tara touches her back, and she jumps at the contact, her attention darting away from Bertie. “I’m sorry,” Tara says immediately, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Denise repeats, “I’m fine. My hearts just racing.”

“Don’t panic,” Tara says, squeezing her hand, “Everyone’s okay.”

Denise nods, “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m fine.”

Tara shakes her head, “Don’t be sorry, honey, just hold my hand.”

Kal approaches them as he runs down from the gate, Eduardo behind him.

“Are we really making a deal with him?” Kal asks, “Or were you bluffing?”

“For now,” Maggie responds, facing everyone’s vocalized concern, “We need to get stronger. For now, we obey. We have to lay groundwork.”

“How?” Eduardo huffs, “The only weapons we have are the ones we have from Alexandria.”

“We can learn to fight,” Jesus says, “Guns aren’t always the most efficient method of handling a situation. They’re just the easiest option.”

“Exactly,” Maggie affirms, “We can do with spears, and our firsts just as much as they can with their guns, and bullets. If we master what we have at our disposal, we can be just as deadly.”

“Maggie,” Aaron interrupts, “Daryl just told me something I think you need to know.”

“Daryl,” Maggie begins, “What’s going on?”

“Dwight… you remember him?” he asks.

Maggie nods, “Yeah, the guy who almost killed you in the woods. What about that son of a bitch?”

“I think there’s more to that guy than we realize,” Daryl suggests, “I think we’re missing something. Maybe.”

Maggie nods, then turns to the crowd of Hilltop residents, “Keep your eyes on the gates for Craig. I don’t know when he’ll come back, but if Negan doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain, we’ll have to withhold our supplies.” Her announcement is met with an abundance of affirmative body language.

She glances at Aaron, and Jesus, “Let’s go to my office.” She looks at Tara, and sees her holding Denise. They share a glance that informs Maggie she needs to stay with her. Maggie readily understands.

They all enter the mansion, and file into Maggie’s quarters. Jesus clicks the door shut behind them.

“What are you thinking?” Maggie asks from behind her desk, “What happened out there in the woods before the van?”

“Before he shot me, he… he kept begging me to remember he’s still the same guy I knew before.” Daryl sits down on the sofa in the room, “He kept saying it over, and over.”

“Who was the guy you knew before?” Aaron asks, his body propped against the door. “What was he like when you first met?”

“A prick,” Daryl states, “But, he was trying to get away. I guess from Negan, and he was pretty fucking desperate too. There were two women with him. One, she got bit, but the other one… I don’t know what happened to her. They took my bike, and my crossbow, and fucked off to who knows where.” Daryl shakes his head, “I felt bad for the fucker at first, but after how he screwed me over? Man, fuck him.”

“Dwight’s not committed,” Jesus presumes. He sits himself on the arm of the couch, and continues, “He wanted Daryl to know he’s not loyal to Negan.”

“But why would he then try to kill Daryl?” Maggie asks, “Unless, he wasn’t shooting to kill.”

“Denise said the wound could’ve been a lot worse, but it wasn’t,” Aaron tells them. “Is it possible he could’ve shot Daryl to injure him? Not kill him?”

“That would make sense,” Jesus confirms. “Negan doesn’t like to kill women, and he doesn’t like to kill people who are already hurt. There’s no fun in that for him. No challenge.”

“What a standup guy,” Maggie applauds.

“He knew Negan would pass him by,” Aaron concludes, “He might have saved your life, Daryl.”

Daryl sighs, “I still hate the asshole. He looks like that rat from _Capitol Critters_.”

“Hate him, or not, I think he’s on our side,” Jesus says.

“That’s too much to assume,” Maggie tells Jesus, “For all we know, he could want us to be having this conversation right now. Maybe, Negan wants us to trust him. He could be a double agent.”

“Someone, or something burned his face off,” Daryl adds, “He didn’t have that scar when we first met.”

“Negan, maybe?” Aaron says, “It could’ve been a punishment. He couldn’t have been too happy about him trying to escape.”

“He’s hated the guy since we met,” Daryl says, “If that’s the case, he has all the more reason to hate him now. I think he still wants my help.”

“Your help?” Maggie asks, “To escape Negan?”

“Maybe escape him for good,” Jesus guesses, “He could be thinking we’re the best shot at killing Negan.”

“That could be why he helped Daryl,” Aaron tells Jesus, “To show us he wasn’t a bad guy. He could be trying to show us he’s worth trusting. Maybe that was the only way he knew how to go about it.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it helping me,” Daryl says.

“This is something else,” Maggie says, “We need to come up with a way to meet with him alone, and find out how he really feels.”

“I could probably follow him on the pick-up in four days,” Jesus says, “Worth a shot.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Daryl rejoins, “If he saved me, that means he trusts me. For whatever reason. I think it’s safer for me to try, and figure it out. We got no idea how he’s gonna respond to you picking him apart.”

Maggie nods, “I agree. When you get a little bit better, I want to send you out there.” She looks at Aaron, “Let’s get Tara in here, and try and figure out a strategy. I don’t want to have Daryl just wandering out in the woods, looking for this guy, who may, or may not be a total asshole.”

“I can confirm already he’s a total asshole,” Daryl voices.

Aaron shakes his head, “Alright, I’ll be back.” He hurries out of the room to find Tara.

Maggie looks at Jesus, “Take Daryl back to the medical trailer.”

“I’m fine,” Daryl insists, “I need to move.”

“You need to get better so you can help me,” Maggie emends, “Now, go.”

Daryl lifts himself from the sofa with reluctance, and follows Jesus outside.

“That was the most exciting walk I’ve ever been on,” Jesus comments as they reach the trailer.

Daryl shrugs, “I got chased by a water moccasin one time. I think that was scarier.”

Jesus plunges his hand into his coat, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He flips open the flimsy paper lid, and extends them to Daryl, “Need this?”

Daryl snatches the whole pack from his hand, “What didn’t you touch in my room?”

“That knife on the chair I didn’t move an inch,” Jesus protests.

Daryl sighs, as Jesus holds the door open for him, “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Jesus chirps, “So, Dwight’s your secret admirer, now.” He glances at Daryl, “I have quite a bit of competition.”

Daryl huffs, “Yeah, everybody’s dying to get to know me.”

“I’m a competitive person,” Jesus admits.

“Oh, is that how you see me? A competition?” Daryl asks with mock outrage.

Jesus laughs, “Oh God, I fucked it up.”

“You sure did,” Daryl verifies, “I was like this close to liking you,” he hovers his thumb, and pointer finger incredibly close together, “Now, I’m totally uninterested.”

“I’ve never ruined something that quickly before in my life,” Jesus acknowledges.

Daryl makes a clicking noise, “Something tells me that’s a lie.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Jesus admits.

Daryl sits back on the edge of his bed, “You know, you were right.”

“Did you actually just say that?” Jesus asks.

Daryl waves him off, “Nah, really. You threw that damn knife like it was nobody’s business.”

Jesus moves around in the chair by Daryl’s bed, “Were you impressed with me, Daryl?”

Daryl smiles openly for the first time in a long time, “Yes, Jesus, I was.”

“Mind if I stay a while, then? I feel like I’ve really earned it.” Jesus scoots his chair forward an inch.

Daryl sighs enduringly, “You will, anyways. Don’t even ask.”

There is a subject hounding Daryl with a dedicated persistence, and as he shares the room with Jesus, that affair pounds harder in his chest. Words flow from him mouth before he’s able to really register who they’re being exhibited to. Constraints slip from his tongue, and his brain, and he has no time to convince himself to reconsider his maneuvers.

Daryl’s face turns downcast, “We could’ve died today.”

Jesus pulls his gloves off his hands sluggishly, and says, “We’ll be more careful from now on. Until things with Negan settle down, we should probably stay behind the walls. Unless we’re going on supply runs. Maybe we ca—”

“Can I tell you something,” Daryl interrupts, his hand nestled on his lap, “Or, I guess, ask you something? Since you seem to be good with deep shit, you know?”

Jesus is profoundly concentrated, as he responds, “Of course.”

“I think I’m changing, and I don’t know why,” Daryl says flatly, “I don’t even want to see Rick, or… or anyone, really. I miss him, but I’m… scared of him, too. Why?” He looks at Jesus through a few sprigs of umber hair that escaped their confines. “Why do I feel like this?”

Jesus sighs, then curves his head to the side, “Well, for starters, I think you’re a little confused.”

“I’m very confused,” Daryl retorts, “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“No, about changing. Like, I think it feels like changing because you feel differently, but you’re still Daryl.” Jesus shrugs, “Maybe you’re just becoming more comfortable with yourself.”

Daryl shakes his head, “It’s not comfortable, though. It’s weird.”

“It’s only weird ‘cause it’s something new. Maybe you haven’t had a lot of chances to be yourself,” Jesus suggests, “Maybe… being yourself feels weird.”

Daryl nods, and rests his chin in his hand, “I’ve had too much time to myself.”

“In here?” Jesus asks, “You should’ve told me you were lonely. I would’ve stayed longer.”

“No,” Daryl says dismissively, “I mean, at night, here, in bed. I’ve been laying here in bed just…” he moves his hand from his jaw, and motions it around his head with a flow of his wrist, “I think, and think, and I… I realized, ‘I feel different.’” He looks back at Jesus, “Usually when I get like that I just go out, walk around, make myself busy.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Jesus soothes, “You’re just… learning who you are. Sometimes we forget who we are when we’re so wrapped up in others.”

“But Rick…” He begins, trailing off. He sighs, and resumes, “I don’t know why I feel so… uncomfortable… thinking about seeing him again.”

Jesus laughs, “Oh, God, Daryl, maybe it’s because it makes you insecure?”

“What’s funny?” Daryl asks quietly, feeling as small as his voice.

“Daryl,” Jesus begins, leaning towards him, “You portray yourself constantly as this… warrior, hero, knight who is, for all tense and purposes, invincible. Now, you’re stuck in that thing,” He points to Daryl’s sling, “You have to take it easy, I mean, you’re defeated.” Jesus’ eyes are soft, but his words knock into Daryl like a battering ram, “You’re ashamed, Daryl. You shouldn’t be, but you are.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Daryl almost whispers, his eyes stuck to the floor.

Jesus whisks his eyes around the room, then looks back at Daryl, “I’m sorry have I… I shouldn’t have—"

“No, it’s fine,” Daryl lifts his feet onto the bed, and looks at Jesus blankly, “I just want to be alone right now.”

“Okay,” Jesus says with reluctance. He nods, “I’ll… I’ll come see you tomorrow, is that alright?”

Daryl doesn’t respond, but pulls his body beneath his blankets. Jesus finds his way out of the room, and he is left alone.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Daryl considers it funny, how quickly one’s fears can become reality.

After a blur of many hours restlessly tossing in bed, there becomes clear to him a reason why he never opens up. Vocalizing one’s concerns made every aspect of them more acutely real. He is wide awake, despite the medication Denise had brought earlier to ease his body. Daryl is anything but at ease.

He wasn't known to sleep in a bed. It was strange, he acknowledged that, but he was firmly convicted in the ambiguity of normalcy. People, as far as Daryl was able to perceive, were systematically dedicated to the concept of a bed. It was the ultimate representation of peace, and pleasure.

Sex, sleep and relaxation were all dominating attributes that the bed offered, and generally these were all very welcomed hallmarks. On the contrary, Daryl didn't participate in sexual relations, he never slept well, and feeling anxious was as habitual as breathing.

Laying in a bed for Daryl was like wearing someone else's skin. It was inherently unnatural.

When Daryl was instructed to settle down in Alexandria, there was a sensation that overcame him. It wasn't an uncommon one either. It was an unconscious commandment that he could barely struggle against. It was as if the sensation to be vacant was something his being required. Freedom wasn't a selfish preference, but the key to survival.

Although he had been connected to Aaron and Eric through the outreach, he still felt the unshakable, but common malaise of discovery. Whenever Daryl was subjected to himself, and his own devices, he longed for nothing more than a convenient escapism.

Daryl consistently felt as if his brain had been hard-wired by someone's hands that weren't his own. Because if Daryl could choose what he wanted to be, he was certain it wouldn't be this.

Someone who had a more pressing fear of serenity than turmoil.

Alexandria had always been a fatal encumbering, and a dire commitment. He knew that when Rick lead them wandering through their gates, they were tumbling into a new world. It was a world that Daryl felt forced into the heart of, and ever since he had been pursuing a way to squelch his inner intentions.

As begrudging as it was to admit it, Daryl could recognize that Jesus made a valid point in his all ramblings. Daryl's biggest hang up was his refusal to reject reality's harsh demeanor, and his simultaneous residence in the conveniences of denial.

Daryl laid every night in bed in Alexandria and felt as though he was melting into nothing. Remaining in that unfamiliar square was like lying down in his own coffin.

He found himself crawling out of it, and venturing into the night. Sometimes, Aaron was a relief to his restless soul. He would welcome Daryl in, and embrace his nocturnal nature.

But, Aaron was in love. Eric needed him, and Daryl was convicted in his respect for that. Aaron was a donation he had no right to abuse. It was palliative to spend the evening with them, but Eric and Aaron had a life together.

Daryl had to be okay with that. 

There was a point in time, when prison walls stood tall around him, that Daryl felt a comradery in his mindset with Rick. The man was his closest companion, and his reliance on Daryl’s capabilities was intoxicating. Never in his entire life had he felt so pivotal to another’s fate.

Rick made him feel important, and that was so paramount to his own happiness. Daryl might have felt a pinch of embarrassment to admit it, but that didn’t prevent the fact from remaining true.

Long gone were those days. Rick certainly relied on him greatly, but the appreciation had faded. Daryl’s loyalty, and dedication were no longer unique traits. He had been taken for granted, and he couldn’t fault Rick for that. If anything, Rick’s trust had grown, and that was a good thing.

So his nightly roaming, in both mind, and body, were trips he took in solidarity. Besides, Daryl wasn’t open to allowing other’s into the truths of his behavior. If they realized the extent to which he was insomniac, they may even be troubled. Worse than that, they could pity him. It was a risk he didn’t feel like taking.

There were some evenings where he remained still, and told himself that this was what he needed. Rick could do it, and so could he. Michonne was a warrior, and she found a simplistic whimsy in allowing herself the solace of a bed. For that matter, not just the bed, but the whole damned house. The couch, the shower, the paintings on the walls. The pristine sinks that shown like a knife in his hand.

To Daryl, it was a joke.

To everyone he knew, it was all a welcomed concession from their tireless efforts. They felt entitled to seize it. Michonne, Rick, Abraham, Glenn, they all felt that they were permitted a life free of travail. Daryl just didn't.

He admits tonight, sitting alone in the furthest reaches of Hilltop, his body huddled beneath his sheets, that he has been denying himself a reality.

Daryl moves without fully understanding where he’s going. His mind leads him in the correct direction. His feet slide through the slick grass until he’s standing in front of Jesus’ trailer.

It only takes a few cautious, awkward knocks before Jesus answers the door.

“Daryl,” he answers, his voice lucid, "Are you alright?" He examines Daryl’s form with swift, darting eyes. “Is Maggie okay?”

Daryl feels a pinch in his stomach realizing that Jesus wouldn't expect him here unless the situation was urgent. It makes him feel as cold as the air that dances around them.

Daryl shakes his head once, "No, I just wanted to tell you something else."

Jesus looks around, as if to check that cameras aren't filming his reaction. He sounds chary, as if he believes he’s five seconds from being pranked, "Uh, yeah come in. Of course."

Daryl takes an assiduous step up the single wooden block into the trailer. His body is beginning to ooze grogginess, but he perseveres. Jesus props the door open with his body, and makes way for him to enter.

The construct is menial, and much less threatening than the purity of the Alexandria residences. It’s the first Hilltop home he’s entered aside from the medical trailer.

There is a small bed built into the wall beside the entryway, and across from it a ledge lined with plants. Above the bed is three small shelves of books. To the left, there stood a door leading to a toilet, and adjacent to it, a shower. To the right, there is a table that juts from the wall and on either side a booth big enough for two.

"I don't really live here," Jesus admits, "I just sort of come here when I’m not busy.” He notices Daryl’s gaze drifting, and reaches his hand out to grip his arm. “Daryl, are you alright? Do you need me to get Denise?”

Daryl is silent for a while, standing in front of the door, and staring at nothing in particular. "Where do you live," He finally says, his entire being filled with softly swaying fraught.

Jesus' hands find each other, "I don't really do permanent," there's a humorless smile that forms on his face, "No, I mostly just try to keep moving. There's a degree of safety that comes from living temporarily." He flashes another sympathetic look at Daryl. "You want to-?" he asks, motioning towards the sitting area.

Daryl's legs carry him to the table, and he slumps into the seat nearest him. Jesus slides in across from him.

"You were right," Daryl mutters, his head heavier than it’s felt in a long while. "You were right about me."

Jesus' hand extends onto the table, but keeps its distance from Daryl's lying near it.

"When you told me that I was lying to myself, that I was ignoring shit. You were right. I... I don't always like to look at myself."

"Who does?" Jesus murmurs.

"No, no," Daryl's face scrunches, and his hand flies to his side. He lets out a gust of air from his nostrils, and ducks his head. “You were right about the … the insecurity, too. You’ve been right about so much. I just had to tell you... You were right about that. I wanted to tell you, that I... I am," he shakes his head. "I don't know, really, Jesus..."

"Daryl," Jesus says with sheer purpose, "You don't have to admit anything else to me. It's alright, I just want you to know that you're not some human conundrum," he smiles sweetly, "You're complex, but that's a beautiful virtue."

Daryl keeps his body rigid, "I want to tell you this, but it ain't because I want you to be my friend. I just gotta say it. I’ve been thinking… so long, and I have to."

Jesus nods, "Alright, what is it?"

"I don't like sleeping in a bed, and I thought, 'Ah, it just ain't for me,' you know? But that ain't it. If I'm being honest, I don't like sleeping alone, and I ain't ever slept with nobody but myself. I can't stand that no more," he says, his voice cracking.

"I always thought Glenn was fucking...," he takes a heavy breathe, "I thought he was just really dumb you know. With, being married, a baby, a little baby…I thought, 'How now?' I thought, 'Why now?'" he grits out. "But now I know he probably just didn't like sleeping alone neither."

Jesus' eyes are silky, and his heart seems to always be like a gem in a museum. On full display, yet so heavily guarded. Maybe Daryl could relate, or maybe he was just so weighted, and in Jesus' presence was where he finally had to fall down.

Either way, he feels the tears sliding down his face, and he knows his hair can't cover it completely.

His eyes are locked on the floor, but he knows Jesus has moved from his seat. Daryl then feels the warmth of another body beside him, hesitantly holding him.

The miserable tsunami of emotion wracks his body, and he tries to keep it in as best he can. There's a thousand hands in his throat forcing noises from his stomach, and out of his mouth. He strains, and commits to trapping it as best he can, but soon it’s like water in the palm of his hand. Slipping, slipping, until he’s fully lost it.

He's crying, and his nose is struggling with every ragged sweep of air it's taking in. He knows his body is shaking, trying not to break down completely from years of unaddressed pain. He knows that none of this is what he wants, and certainly not in front of Jesus.

It's too late, though. A damn had been cracked with every land of Negan's bat, and now he had to try and not drown.


	13. Pantomime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13! One ofmy favorite chapters to write yet!

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# Chapter 13

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# Pantomime

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Daryl is ushered into consciousness by a stabbing pain in his arm. He opens his eyes, and is again jarred by the pleasantries of regaining sentience. A ribbon of light is gazing at him through a window pane above. He drifts his hand over his injury, and through his fading stupor realizes it is the source of discomfort. He shifts himself upward to alleviate the shooting sensation which was the result of his sleeping pattern. He deduces that his arm had been crushed beneath his body for most of the night.

The spring of the bed he’s rested on is alien to him. He places his fingers through his hair with a stagnant touch, struggling to regain a sense of recognition. His eyes focus forward, and onto his feet. They’re suspiciously bare.

He turns his body, and allows his feet to descend off the side of the bed. He looks to his right, and is immediately struck with recognizance. He recollects the night before like a fresh dream, still swirling like a cloud of dust in his head. 

Daryl recalls being entwined with Jesus on the very booth his eyes had now been cast upon. Eventually, his body’s wracking had ceased, and his lenses were hit with drought. He doesn’t particularly note a certain point of slumber, but soon after, the night had overcome him.

He understands now that it Jesus’ home he is a guest in, and Jesus’ bed in which he lays. There were only two more questions left for Daryl to answer: where was the toilet, and where were his shoes?

He lifts of the mattress with a soft grunt, and tests the abilities of his body once vertical. He feels steady, if not a little vague in spirit. He peers dubiously to the right, and sees what appears to be the space a bathroom may fill. He moves towards the area at a safe pace, as not to enact any hidden traps, or tocsins which he has no hesitation in accepting. If Jesus’ home was any reflection of him, it would be distrusting, and multiplex. 

He pokes his head past the mouth of the entry, and surveys the room. It doesn’t take him long at all to distinguish what he sees, but understanding why what he is scrutinizing exists is another story.

Lining what used to be a condensed shower is a plethora of art. From parallel planes that depict an ocean tide, to a trio of small, abstract scribblings, the place has been converted into a personal art show. 

Daryl praises Jesus’ dedication to whatever it is he’s seeing, but in the same breath, the cache of visuals is undoubtedly paradoxical for a man who claims to deny sentiment in the form of possession. 

He shrugs to himself, and considers one’s hobby, even though anomalous, to ultimately be a subjective preference. It had little, to no application upon him.  
The best option, as Daryl soon distinguishes, is to leave. Without Jesus present, he felt unsure of the appropriateness of his own company there. He scours the floor for his boots, and finally finds them by the entrance.

He pushes his toes into the footwear, and squashes his heel against the back, making them fold underneath his soles. He didn’t afford himself the luxury of pulling his entire foot inside, and lacing them back up. He stomps out the door, and almost misses the wooden block in front of the house.

“Shit,” he mumbles, jerking his body back in place, “That’s horrible.”

He shakes it off, and sees in the distance ahead of him Tara, and Eric eating breakfast along with the other Hilltop residents. There’s an overhang by a small cabin where food is being dispensed by an older, white woman. There are several tables, and chairs being filled by hungry citizens. He propels himself towards their location, being more mindful of his step.

“Tara,” Eric utters, his eyes on Daryl, “Do you see where Daryl is coming from?”

Tara swallows down the scrambled egg in her mouth, and looks up. She sees Daryl, and asks, “The left?”

“No,” Eric answers, switching his gaze to her, “He just left Jesus’ trailer.”

Tara opens her mouth, “Oh… Oh!” 

“Yeah,” Eric draws, a grin on his face, “Denise didn’t see him gone this morning?”

“Denise is still asleep,” Tara confesses. “I can’t believe this. Do you think they—?”

“Look at him, he looks so … disheveled. I’m guessing yes,” Eric notices Tara moving her head to glance at him, but he motions his hand towards. “Don’t look!” He says in a hushed roar, “We can’t embarrass him about.”

Tara catches herself, and turns back to Eric, “You’re right. We gotta be cool.” She shakes her head, “Let’s play it cool.” 

Eric lowers his voice as Daryl comes into earshot, “Should we say anything about it or—?”

“Hey,” Daryl greets them with a tired swish of his hand.

Tara, and Eric both jolt to look at him.

“Daryl, hey,” Tara chirps, “Want something to eat?”

“Nah,” Daryl says absently, draping himself next to her. He dips down, and begins straightening his shoes back onto his feet.

“You know,” Eric interjects, looking to Tara, “We were talking about the most interesting thing before you came over. Do you ever wonder why two people get along?”

“A lot, now,” Daryl responds, flicking a band on his sling, “Why?”

“It’s actually really intriguing,” Tara poses, “I think about that all the time, too.”

“It’s weird, right?” Eric tells her, then leans back, “I don’t know. I’ve been feeling a little helpless lately.”

“Tell me about it,” Daryl hums.

“Aaron, you know, he’s so helpful,” Eric says, “I really love it when people are caring, and helpful, and make me feel important. Don’t you?” He looks at Tara.

“Oh, absolutely,” Tara responds, “Denise is my rock. She really holds me down,” she glances at Daryl, “Do you have anyone like that?”

Daryl looks up at them blankly, “Huh?”

“You know, someone you really admire?” Tara rewords.

Daryl rubs his eyes, and asks, “Someone I admire?”

“Yeah,” Eric subtly cheers him on, “Someone who really makes an impression on you.”

Daryl thinks a moment.

“I admire Carol,” he says, a distrait look on his face, “Rick, too.”

Both Tara, and Eric’s faces collapse into disappointment. Daryl notices their moment of quietude.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Daryl confesses, “I might be a little off.”

Instantly, they are reinstated with hope.

“I’m sorry, dude,” Tara retries, “What kept you up last night?”

“Yeah, what happened?” Eric asks sweetly.

“I just, I don’t know, kind of down, I guess” Daryl reveals.

Tara shares a knowing glance with Eric. The first time can be emotional.

She attempts a more direct approach, and probes on, “Anything exciting happen? Or, for that matter, bad? Any, you know, landmarks?”

Daryl squints, “Landmarks, like … The Statue of Liberty?”

“Like, uh,” Eric takes a deep breath, “Something worth remembering.”

“Oh,” Daryl says, “Oh, yeah, I get what you’re saying.” He shakes his head, “Not that I know of… what’s wrong with ya’ll?”

“Nothing!” Eric exclaims, “We just like to know what’s happening, Daryl!”

“You’re exciting, man,” Tara agrees, “We love hearing about your day, your life.”

Daryl tilts back in his seat, and examines both of them.

“What?” Tara asks, an anxiousness building in her tone, “What’s wrong?”

Daryl’s head snaps to the side, and his arm slaps his leg, “I can’t believe you two.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Eric urges, “We’re just curious.”

“You think I—” Daryl’s voice catches in his throat. His expression toughens, and he continues, quieter, “You think I had sex with him, don’t you?”

“Of course we do,” Tara explains, “You came out of his trailer. It’s incriminating.”

“It is not!” Daryl roars, then composes himself with a deep sigh. His body jerks forward so that his voice is closer to them. “Listen here, I did not sleep with him.”

“Okay, okay,” Eric puts his hands up, “It was an innocent speculation. If you say it didn’t happen, it didn’t happen.”

“Well,” Tara says, rising from her seat, “With that boring confession, I think I’m going to go bring breakfast to Denise.” She picks up her plate, and tells them, “I’ll talk to you guys later.”

Eric watches her leave, and chides at Daryl, “You scared her away with your innocence of character.”

Daryl glares at him, “I can’t believe you would … assume that.”

“I think you can believe I would,” Eric says, picking up the mug of coffee in front of him, “You are so sensitive. There’s nothing wrong with a little post-apocalyptic romp, you know.”

“I will romp when I feel like it,” Daryl insists, “And I sure as hell ain’t romping with that guy.”

Eric smirks, “Well ‘that guy’, is right behind you.”

Daryl whips his head around to see Jesus moving towards them. There’s a pull inside him when he sees his face in the dawn light. Daryl is being battered by wave, after wave of mortification.

“Hey,” he says to them with a light smile. He looks down at Daryl, and informs him, “I was going to bring you some breakfast in bed, but they were running low. I figured you’d be happy with this,” he dips his hand into his coat pocket, and extends a granola bar towards Daryl. His eyes are well accustomed to the package in front of him.

“Thanks,” Daryl says, quickly taking it into his hand.

Jesus takes Tara’s seat beside him, and releases a brisk, “No problem.”

Eric sips his coffee, then sits it on the table with a dull thud. “So, Jesus,” he begins, eyeing the man, “I was just telling Daryl, you know, I think you must be one of the most attractive men left on earth.”

“That is not what we were talking about,” Daryl says, panicked.

Jesus laughs, disregarding Daryl’s comment, “Eric, if I had known you before you were a man of commitment, I would’ve been captivated by you.”

Eric places his hand to his chest, “Well, don’t let my commitment stop your captivation.” He shoots a look at Daryl, and asks him, “Daryl, don’t you think Jesus is so sexy? I mean, even through your boyish purity you can admit that.”

“I don’t really… consider it,” Daryl says painfully slow, as though this fact should be self-evident. He looks between them, and catches Eric’s eyes begging for something. He throws him a bone, and replies lifelessly, “I guess… his hair is very… clean.”

“I agree,” Eric says, with an avid excitement. He looks at Jesus, and asserts “That’s a hard quality to find in a man these days.”

“What are you all doing?” Aaron announces, as he walks up to the scene. He looks down at Eric, and greets him with a small kiss as his partner smiles up at him.

“Wishing I was somewhere else,” Daryl responds.

Jesus chuckles, “Don’t be so bleak, Daryl.” He looks at Aaron, and relishes as he says, “We’re sharing the daybreak with your very attractive counterpart.” He leans towards Eric, and adds, “I hope you know what you’ve got here, Aaron. This one is a trip.”

Aaron’s face is rigid, and his demeanor is that of someone a mere millisecond from rampage. Daryl believes that if the world were only an ion more barbaric, Aaron may have launched himself at Jesus’ smug face. Instead, he simply replies, “I know that.”

Eric laughs at Jesus’ flattery, “You’re so ridiculous.”

“Eric,” Aaron says, attempting to be as reticent as humanly possible. His eyes stay glued to Jesus, “I think I need some help in the gardens.”

“Again?” Jesus asks him, “You’ve always got him working! Let him at least finish breakfast. The kid can’t catch a break with you, Aaron.”

“Kid?” Eric squawks, “I’m almost a relic at this point.”

“I would card you,” Jesus says with ferocious wit.

“I think you should help in the gardens too,” Daryl tells Jesus, “The tomatoes are calling all of ya’ll.”

“I think Eric and I can handle it,” Aaron states coldly.

Eric smacks his hands together lightly, and shakes his head, “I better get going. You two have fun without me.”

“Not having fun now,” Daryl mumbles, his elbow propped on the table, and his hand squished against his face.

Eric looks at Daryl, “Keep him company while I’m gone.” 

Daryl just squeezes his eyes shut.

Aaron turns to Eric as they walk from the table, and derides, “He was flirting with you. Where does this guy get off? I mean, friendliness is one thing. That guy was almost humping the table.”

Eric releases an amused laugh, “No, sweetheart, he wasn’t flirting with me, he was messing with you.”

Jesus laughs to himself, “I adore Eric.”

Daryl sighs deeply, “I don’t think he wants to do that with you. He loves Aaron.”

Jesus gawks at Daryl, “I do not want to fuck him! Never! You must think I’m some animal.”

Daryl yawns, “Why are you being so flirty, then?”

“I was just being friendly,” Jesus defends, “Key word: friend.”

“I was just making Aaron hate me more,” Daryl mocks, “Key word: I’m a dick.”

“Alright, alright,” Jesus whines, “I’m going to be really nice from now on.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Daryl kids, his mouth in an even line. His hand begins fiddling with the granola bar Jesus had gifted him.

“I’m serious,” Jesus ensures. He glances at Daryl’s struggle, and asks, “Need my help?”

“Absolutely not,” Daryl shoots at him. He begins gnawing at the wrapper’s end.

“I’m sorry about leaving you this morning,” Jesus says quietly, “I went to get you some breakfast, but I figured you rather someone else get the last of the eggs.” He looks at Daryl, “I went to the medical trailer for your blanket, but by the time I got it, I saw you sitting with Eric, and Tara.”

After Daryl finally makes a break-through in his meal, he responds, “It’s alright.” He spits out a piece of the tinfoil package he had ripped off, and asks, “You did put it back though?”

“Yeah,” Jesus replies, “Hey, would you like to see some art tonight?”

“I saw enough this morning,” Daryl says, “I still have to piss.”

“Well, well, well,” Jesus harps, “Who’s looking in whose room now?”

“I was invited in, asshole,” Daryl retorts, he tugs the bar out of its packaging completely with his teeth. He takes it from his mouth with his free hand, and breathes, “Finally.”

“Thank you for your honesty last night,” Jesus begins, but Daryl silences him a wag of the granola bar in his direction.

“It’s too early for the emotional shit,” Daryl almost pleads, “We’ll talk about it, alright? Just not right now.”

Jesus nods, “That’s fair.”

“Did you take my shoes off for me?” Daryl asks, as though he momentarily recalls the scavenger hunt he was forced to participate in prior that morning.

“I thought it would make things more comfortable for you,” Jesus illustrates, “They’re very heavy.”

“It’s the only type I can find in my size.” Daryl takes a large bite out of Jesus’ offering, and makes an approving noise in his throat, “That ain’t half bad.”

“It’s honey, and macadamias,” Jesus tells him, “They’re my favorite.” He glances behind himself, and then jerks his body closer to Daryl’s. He groans, “Oh, God.”

Daryl slants himself away from Jesus slightly, and asks, “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Jesus cavils, “It’s nothing.” He keeps his body huddled down by Daryl.

“Don’t be dramatic, just spit it out,” Daryl requests, as he continues to munch his way through his meal.

“Okay, well,” Jesus sighs, “It’s my ex.”

“Oh my God,” Daryl shakes his head, “Am I on _The Young and the Restless_?”

“You know what,” Jesus begins, pointing his voice at him, “It was hard for me.”

Daryl chuckles with his mouth full. “Hard for you,” he manages.

“That’s not funny,” Jesus insists. He turns away from Daryl to look back at his former, “I really have no desire to speak to him. Usually, I don’t have to.”

Daryl looks back, too, even though he is unaware what he’s looking for. “Was he mean to you?”

“No,” Jesus complains, “That’s the worst part about it. He’s a genuinely nice person.”

Daryl nods, “What did you do to him?”

Jesus makes a pained sound, “I don’t know. I was distant, cold, unloving. I could probably go on.”

“You really don’t have to,” Daryl says, brushing crumbs from his lap to signify the conquest of his breakfast.

“Look, and see if he’s with that motherfucker Wes,” Jesus solicits. “How pretentious. Wes. What, is Wesley not good enough for you?”

“People literally call you, ‘Jesus’,” Daryl reminds him.

“Just tell me,” Jesus presses, “I don’t want them to think I’m looking at them.”

Daryl scrunches his face at Jesus, and explains roughly, “I got no clue what they look like, dumbass.”

“Uh,” Jesus shakes his hands around his head, “Red hair, and uh, the other guy’s kind of stout, I guess?”

“Stout? What is he, a tea pot?” Daryl asks.

“Oh, forget this! You’re horrible at spying,” he posits.

Daryl huffs, and turns his entire being around as far as the chair will allow, “I’m looking for a ginger, and a tea pot.”

Jesus releases a gust of air from his nose, and an annoyed din, “You’re not being subtle.”

Daryl whips back around too quickly for Jesus to even register, and proclaims, “You want to know what’s not subtle? Hooking up with someone in a fucking community of two hundred people max.”

“Jesus,” a man says in their near vicinity. They both turn to face the voice in question.

Alex is standing in from of them with a charming half-smile on his face.

“I never see you around anymore. If I knew better, I’d think you were ignoring me,” he greets with a small laugh, “Did you get some breakfast?”

“No,” Jesus answers meekly, “I was busy this morning.”

“It’s nice of Maggie to want us to eat together,” Alex commends, “Don’t you think?”

Daryl looks over at Jesus, then back to Alex. He doesn’t exactly feel cozy in his current position, but he feels leaving would be a folly on his part.

“It’s nice,” Jesus jibes.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Alex says, turning his attention to Daryl, “I’m Alex.”

“I figured,” he comments, wagging his fingers towards his head. “Daryl.”

“You’re a man of few words,” Alex postulates with a laugh.

“Maybe,” Daryl says with a nod, “Maybe everyone else just talks too much.”

“What happened to your arm?” Alex asks, solicitude in his eyes.

“I got shot by a giant mound of horse shit named Dwight,” Daryl answers.

“Ah,” Alex replies, “Well, if you need anything, I can help.”

“Are you a doctor?” Daryl asks snidely, feeling a twinge of resentment at Jesus’ abnormally hushed carriage.

“I am, actually, yes,” Alex responds with a modicum of gratification. He looks at Jesus, and asks, “Are you two—?”

Daryl shoves himself out of his seat, “I swear to God. I can’t breathe without someone accusing me of dating you.” He looks at Jesus, and says, “I’m leaving.”

He hears Alex protesting his departure as he walks away, but he has no desire to turn around. The medical trailer seems too drab to stomach, but he has nowhere else to go. 

He makes it to his bed, and reads for a total of fifteen minutes before ennui sets in. It encompasses him gradually, then with a sudden exertion. He’s coerced by his own disgust with himself to get up, and make himself productive. It was a distant, and unobserved occurrence for him.

Maggie’s office calls out to his memory. He decides to take a risk, and visit her in the hopes of finding momentary purpose. There is a contemplation to be alone, and endure. The thought, however, is fleeting. He needs something to do.

As soon as he enters the mansion, and bursts into Maggie’s quarters, he comes in contact with Aaron, and Eric.

“I thought you two were gardening?” Daryl asks.

“Nope,” Maggie says from behind her desk, “They’re in here complaining.”

Enid is seated on the couch across from them, a book in her hands. She’s as deeply consumed with it, as Maggie is the papers beneath her gaze.

“We’re not necessarily complaining,” Aaron proems, “We’re just listing things we wish were still readily available to us.”

“Like HBO,” Eric elaborates.

“Daryl,” Maggie beckons, her head down, “Since you’re here, come look at this.”

“Where’s Tara, and Denise?” Daryl asks, as he moves to Maggie’s side.

“I assume they’re fucking,” Maggie says in a sigh, “Because it doesn’t take forty minutes to eat breakfast.” 

“That could’ve been a double endtendre,” Eric tells Aaron.

Enid shakes her head, “That comment was almost enough to make me want to vomit.”

Maggie disregards them, and instead looks up at Daryl, “Negan will be here in two days. Tomorrow, we’ll go on a supply run to make sure we’re absolutely stocked. I don’t want any fuck-ups.” She slides the paper on her desk around for Daryl’s eyes to gain access, “I’ve been working on designing this. It’s a well.”

“Smart,” Daryl says with a nod, “A source of water they can’t take.”

“Exactly,” Aaron says from the couch, “The next thing we need to work on is teaching these people how to fight.”

“Jesus can teach them self-defense, but I was hoping you could work with him. Show these people how to go about holding a weapon,” Maggie proposes, “Would you be up for that?”

“Yeah,” Daryl responds, “Not particularly fond of working with him, but—”

“Yes, you are,” Eric retorts, “And don’t get an attitude about it.”

“You just approve of all this because you think he’s hot,” Aaron gripes, “You’re living through Daryl.”

“Ya’ll aren’t a thing now, are you?” Maggie questions, sounding nauseated.

“No, they’re heckling me,” Daryl tells her, “Don’t mind them.”

Aaron turns to Eric and asks him, “Would you love me more if I grew a beard?”

“You would look nice with a beard,” Enid interposes from the couch.

“Thank you, dear,” Aaron says pleasantly.

“It’s not the beard,” Eric apprises. He touches Aaron’s jaw, “Although, that would be nice.”

“Who’s going on the supply run?” Daryl asks, his mind attempting to picture Aaron with facial hair.

“Not you,” Maggie admonishes, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I have an idea,” Eric calls to Maggie from the couch.

Maggie lifts her head to address him, “About what?”

“Dwight, the guy who shot Daryl,” Eric answers, “I’ve been thinking about how we could contact him. It might be dangerous, but what’s not.”

Maggie perks up, “What’s the idea?”

Jesus slams his way into the room, and it interrupts any atmosphere there may have been before his arrival. Even Enid lifts her head from her book.

“Thank you, Daryl!” He yells, letting the door fling shut behind him, “Thank you so much for leaving me alone with someone I specifically stated I did not want to be alone with!” He claps his hands together, “I love being abandoned, and left at the mercy of my ex, and his new boyfriend. The one he left me for, by the way!” Jesus laughs, and Daryl is sure he’s heard that sound from a horror movie before. 

“I love it so much!” He continues, “Seeing them happy, together, just enjoying life! Incredible! So, thank you, Daryl! Thank you from the bottom of my cold, dead fucking heart!”

No one speaks for a solid minute. 

“Are you okay?” Enid asks, breaking the silence. She is both parts confused, and frightened.

Jesus takes a deep breath, and pulls his fingers through his hair to straighten it back. “Yes, I’m… sorry about that.”

“Fuck, man,” Daryl breaths, “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Jesus pulls the sleeves of his jacket back into place, and says, “Yeah, well, it wouldn’t have been so bad if you had given me any cover whatsoever.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Eric coos. His voice immediately devolves into a rebuke as he turns his head to stare down Daryl, “Why did you do that to him?”

Daryl throws his arm up, “I don’t know! I was… flustered! You flustered me!”

“This is not my fault,” Eric corrects, “You need to make it up to him right now.”

Daryl looks at the man beside Eric, “Aaron…”

Eric throws his hands in front of Aaron’s face, “Uh, uh! No! This is not up for discussion.”

Daryl turns to Maggie, but she stops any words from escaping him with her palm. “Just solve it, do something. Make Eric happy,” she says.

Jesus is still composing himself by the doorway.

“Alright,” Daryl concedes, looking to Jesus, “What can I do?”

Jesus immediately yanks himself from his former disposition, and stomps up to Daryl. He looks him dead in the eye, “You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to pretend you love me.”

“You’re testing me,” Daryl warns, “What do you really want?”

“I’m serious. You have hurt my feelings,” Jesus declares, “You asked me what you could do. This is what I need you to do.”

Daryl sighs, and shifts his weight back, and forth on his feet before giving in. “Okay, fine, but nothing ooey-gooey,” he strains.

“What are you, five?” Enid comments from the couch.

“W—what are you, four?” Daryl counters weakly.

“Enough!” Maggie booms, standing from her desk. She looks at Daryl, the flats of her hands slamming into the surface of the table, “Take Jesus’ fucking hand, and go be a raging homosexual, and make him happy so I can get some work done. Okay? Can we go ahead and make this happen? I feel like I’m hosting Pride in here.”

Daryl turns back to Jesus, and the man’s hand is extended towards him. There’s a self-satisfied, yet mousy look on his face. He places his hand in Jesus’, and hears Eric squeak with anticipation.

“No,” Daryl barks, looking at Eric, “None of that.”

“Is that the type of ooey gooey you wish to avoid?” Aaron asks. 

Daryl would flip him off, but his hand is preoccupied. “Let’s just go, like Maggie said,” he utters, moving forward with Jesus still attached.

“Good luck!” Eric calls to them, as Daryl drags Jesus out of the doorway.

“Do we have pet names?” Jesus asks him, pushing the door open for them both.

“You’re asshole, and I’m guy whose being guilted into this,” Daryl responds.

“I don’t think those are very good pet names,” He decides. Jesus spots Alex instantly, and begins to be the one doing the pulling.

“Now, we’re going to act really sweet, and really happy, and you’re gonna apologize for being such a brute,” Jesus strategizes.

Daryl nods, “How about I tell them to help me? Please save me from this situation?”

“You are a willing participant!” Jesus insists.

“Coercion!” Daryl insists back.

“Jesus,” Alex calls, “I thought you had to run? Is everything alright?”

Jesus snaps on a smile quicker than Daryl can loathe him for all of these stunts.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Jesus says, “Daryl just wanted to apologize for how he acted earlier.”

“Oh,” Alex says, vocalizing his surprise.

Jesus stares at Daryl, and the grip on his hand becomes increasingly tighter. He takes this as his very threatening cue.

“Sorry…” Daryl begins, “I have a hard time… expressing myself.”

Alex purses his lips, “It’s… quite alright”

“I have a fear of my own affections,” Daryl continues, almost starting to adapt to his role.

Alex flips his hand at them, “Don’t even worry about it!”

Jesus touches Daryl’s chest, “We haven’t been together that long. We’re really still trying to—figure each other out. Isn’t that right, honey?”

Daryl nods, “Yes… Paul.”

Alex shakes his head, “I’m so happy to hear that.” He smiles behind them, and waves. He turns his attention back to them, and says, “There’s Wes, I better go help him out. It’s nice finally talking to you again.” He looks at Daryl, “And it’s been a pleasure talking to you, too.”

“I agree, it’s been real pleasurable,” Daryl returns.

Alex moves past them, and reconnects with Wes. They both turn to look at them.

“He is stout,” Daryl admits, “You were right.”

Jesus stares at Daryl, “That was so great. God, I bet he’s burning up. I bet he’s seething.”

“I don’t think he’s seething,” Daryl responds.

“Whatever,” Jesus replies, “Let him have Wes, and his stupid pepper plants. They’re pathetic looking shrubs.”

“What are you talking about?” Daryl asks.

“I don’t know,” Jesus admits, “He used to have these… nevermind.” Jesus points his gaze back at Daryl, “But, for the record, ‘Paul’ isn’t a pet name. That’s just… my birth name.”

“I think I did good,” Daryl assures himself, “I felt pressured. I think it’s an accomplishment I even remembered your name.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, you work well under pressure then,” Jesus congratulates.

“I could’ve been more loving, I think,” Daryl critiques. “The hand on the chest was a nice touch.”

Jesus keeps his eyes on Daryl, as he says, “You know, they’re gone now. You can let go of my hand if you want.”

Daryl looks down, and unlatches his fingers from Jesus’.

“Yeah, I thought I’d keep it going. In case they looked back. Authenticity,” Daryl explains.

“Uh huh,” Jesus hums, “You’re so dedicated to your craft.”

Daryl looks at Jesus, the beginning of despondency in his eyes, “I’m sorry. I think I could’ve done a lot better.”

Jesus smirks, and returns his hand to Daryl’s chest, “I couldn’t have asked for a better fake boyfriend.”

Daryl smiles gently, “Will you tell Eric that?”

Jesus nods, “I’ll tell Eric you have completely redeemed yourself, yes.”

Daryl scratches his stomach, and concludes, “Good. Let’s go back to the mansion. I still have to take a leak.”

“I don’t like that term,” Jesus confesses. “Why didn’t you go earlier?”

“Time gets away from me,” Daryl says, “Don’t worry about it, alright?”

“I’m not worried about your leakage,” Jesus retorts as they walk back to the mansion.

“Obviously you were,” Daryl bickers.

They continue to discuss the difference between courteous concern, and overbearing obsession all the way back to Maggie’s office.


	14. Morituri

****

# Chapter 14

# 

****

****

# Morituri

# 

****

 

It’s dark outside, and the world is outlandishly still. Aaron is adjusted to a life on his toes, and evenings like these were, if anything, indicators of catastrophe. The calm before the storm was not a droll adage, but a repeatedly fulfilled prognostication.

On the other hand, quiet nights with an absence of imminent peril were crucial to any healthy relationship. Eric, and Aaron are halfway through foreplay in their designated room of the mansion, when a knock on the door startles them apart.

“You should get that,” Eric suggests, pulling the sheet from their bed around himself, “It’s probably Daryl.”

“Yeah,” Aaron agrees in a sigh, pulling a shirt over his head. He pads over to the door, and puts his eye to the peephole. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Eric exclaims, crawling out of bed quickly to dress himself.

“It’s Jesus,” Aaron responds, putting his hand to his temple.

“Christ?” Eric asks, in sheer confusion.

“No, the guy in love with Daryl,” Aaron shakes his head, “I’m putting actual pants on for this.”

There’s several, resounding slams of his hand against the door, before Aaron opens it in what he deems is an appropriate amount of clothes.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” Jesus asks immediately, looking past Aaron’s body.

“Oh, no,” Aaron responds caustically, “Eric, and I were just playing a riveting game of Monopoly.”

Jesus nods, “May I come in?”

“No,” Aaron says.

Jesus places his hand on the doorframe, “I’m trying to be really nice to you from now on.”

“I really appreciate it,” Aaron applauds him, “What do you want?”

Jesus sighs, and begins, “Well, I think Daryl’s been a little down lately.”

“You think?” Aaron says in a scoff.

“What are some things that he really enjoys?” Jesus asks, “That doesn’t involve murdering creatures. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Wine, and roses,” Aaron replies, rubbing his hand against his face.

“Are you being facetious? Because I know where to find both,” Jesus says.

“Yes, I’m being facetious,” Aaron admits. He looks behind himself at Eric, then back to Jesus, “But, where might one be able to find these things?”  
“I’ll show you tomorrow on our run,” Jesus says with a smirk.

Aaron’s grip on the door falls to his side, “Oh God, is that confirmed?”

“Me and you, buddy,” Jesus says, gesturing between the two of them.

“Aaron let him in,” Eric says, coming up behind his lover, “You’re being rude.”

“You are being a little rude,” Jesus confesses.

“I know I’m being rude,” Aaron retaliates. He backs away from the door, and allows Jesus to walk past him.

Jesus takes a springing seat on their bed, and continues, “I asked him to come look at art with me, but I don’t think he liked the suggestion.”

Aaron fits his hands to his sides, and informs him, “Look, the best way to… bond with Daryl is have him do something for you.”

“What do you mean?” Jesus asks.

Eric sits himself at an escritoire nearby, and says, “I think what Aaron means is that Daryl likes to feel like he’s helping you. Like he’s useful.”

“Yeah, exactly, right now, he’s feeling small. Figure out some… chore, or errand or just some project you could have him work on. That’s the best thing you could do for him.”

Jesus nods, and speaks to himself more than the other two men, “That’s so smart. You’re so right.”

“Then, if he feels like you really respect him, and need him around, he’ll be more apt to not feel so—so insecure about himself around you. He’ll be more comfortable with you,” he says, “I haven’t had a lot of time to spend with him, what with helping Maggie, and all. So, he’s probably feeling a little lonely, too.”

“See,” Eric says to Aaron, “It’s good he’s here to spend time with him.”

Jesus stands from the bed, and announces, “This has been so helpful.”

“What time are we leaving tomorrow?” Aaron asks.

“Five, Six, whenever. Just early,” Jesus says with a wave of his hand. He opens the door to their room, and continues, “See you tomorrow, and thanks for the advice.” He slams the door shut behind himself.

Aaron turns to Eric, “He has the attention span of an ant.”

Eric shrugs, “I’m not concerned with him right now.”

Aaron smirks, “You’re not going to let me rest up for tomorrow, are you?”

Eric shakes his head, “Nope.”

  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  


Daryl is lying in bed shirtless, his quilt cloaking his shoulders. He’s on the last chapter of his novel, and the plot is consuming him. He gasps to himself at the startling event which reveals itself to him at the turn of the page. A knock on the door reels him back into reality, like a fish submerged below its watery home.

“Denise?” He asks, “Come on in.”

Jesus walks in, his hands unfurl at his side, “It’s me!”

“Oh, boy,” Daryl croaks. “I haven’t done enough for you this week?”

Jesus notices Daryl’s bare chest, and shields his eyes, “Would you like me to come back later?”

Daryl sighs, “I don’t think I’m the first guy you’ve seen without a shirt on.”

Jesus swiftly removes his palm, and responds, “You’re right about that.”

Daryl closes his book, his thumb pressed between the pages he had abandoned. “Do you need me to try and piss off another ex?”

“I think you enjoyed it,” Jesus says, sitting himself at the foot of the bed, “You were really getting into character there at the end.”

Daryl smirks, “I used to be in theatre.”

“Really?” Jesus emits with pure shock.

Daryl snickers, “No.”

“You’re an ass!” Jesus shoves the leg nearest him, “You had me going.”

“I know,” Daryl admits, “You should’ve known better, though.”

“I know nothing,” Jesus proclaims, “I tell you all types of—tidbits, all about my life, and what do I get from you?”

“Jack shit,” Daryl responds.

“At least you’re self-aware,” Jesus grants, “But, I think I’ve inferred one thing on my own.”

Daryl scratches his eyebrow, and asks, “Which would be?”

“You’re good with your hands,” Jesus speculates, “I think that’s pretty clear.”

“I guess,” Daryl says in a huff, his self-depreciation shining through the cracks of his hardened exterior.

“Don’t be modest about that,” Jesus says, “There’s a lot of things to be modest about. Be proud of what you can be proud of.”

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the proverbs,” Daryl says, his book balanced on his stomach. “What do my hands got to do with any of this?”

“I think I need to do something with all my art. It’s starting to pile up,” he begins.

Daryl leans forward, his literature sliding to his groin, “I’ll tell you what you need to do. Forget the art, and shit. You need to fix that damn entryway.”

Jesus quirks his brow with a well-concealed smirk. “Really?”

“I almost busted my ass leaving your trailer this morning. You could really hurt yourself on that thing you got out there,” he exemplifies the shape of the step the best he can with one hand. “You know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, a friend of mine gave it to me. He was going to build an uh…” Jesus shakes his head, and laughs darkly, “Well, he never got the chance to uh, build the steps. But he wanted to.”

Daryl nods, “Well, whoever he was, I hope what he was planning on was a lot better than that death trap.”

“He was an architect,” Jesus assures him, “I think they would’ve been nice… if he had been given the chance.”

Daryl shakes his hair from his face, “I’ll work on it tomorrow while I’m here. I ain’t got nothing better to do.”

“If you insist,” Jesus concedes.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Daryl’s body huddles further down into his bed, “If he was building that for you, he had to have been an okay guy.”

“He was a very okay guy,” Jesus guarantees, his gaze on Daryl, but still somehow passing beyond him, “When I came to Hilltop, I had gone beyond bat shit. He helped me.”

“Helped you,” Daryl insinuates so much with only two words.

Jesus nods, “Well, yeah, like that for sure. But, he did more than just keep me company.” He rubs his hand together gingerly, and forages on into his past, now an overgrowth of emotion sharp as pampas grass. 

“When I got to Hilltop, I was a mess, like in my head,” he points to his temple, then moves his hand over his face, “And, also just looked like a mess too. Covered in blood, and dirt, and every type of shit imaginable. I was using rain to shower, that’s how bad it was.”

“He probably smelt you coming,” Daryl comments.

“I think the whole camp did. I was shivering, and drawing a knife at every loud noise within a mile of me,” Jesus runs his hands up to his knee, encircles the jut of his leg, then brings them back up to his thighs in a methodical motion a few times before opening his mouth again. 

“I was an animal, and he… he wasn’t so scared of me,” He looks at Daryl, truly for the first time since they began speaking. “You know what I mean.”

“So you weren’t here from the beginning then,” Daryl speaks for him, instead of questions.

“Almost,” Jesus says with a quick dip of his head, “I was here when the walls were going up. My friend, Calvin, he designed them.”

“The same guy that built those shitty steps was the same guy who built them walls?” Daryl grimaces with a turn of his head, “May have been nice, but he wasn’t consistent.”

“I told you, that was an unfinished project,” Jesus reminds him, “And besides, he wasn’t just nice, he was kind. Big difference.”

“Like how everyone thinks you’re nice, but really you’re just fluid in bullshit,” Daryl summarizes.

Jesus ranges from exasperation, to wonderment, then puzzled acceptance in a matter of seconds. “Actually, yeah. Like that.”

“He introduces you to deodorant,” Daryl says, persuading Jesus on, “Then what?”

“Then, we fucked. A few times. Then, he died,” Jesus shrugs, “That’s the shortened version, kind of the extended version, too.”

“Before Hilltop, you were just out there?” Daryl flicks his hand towards the door, “Wandering about?”

“Pretty much,” Jesus’ eyes circle the ceiling in contemplation. They roll back around to Daryl as he says, “I was by myself for probably a month. In the woods.”

“And your family?” Daryl asks, “You telling me you didn’t have any friends before all this? That’s hard for me to believe. I think you could trick anyone into liking you.”

“Trick, cute,” Jesus says with a fake a smile as he can manage, “I did, but I left them when I left the ranch.”

“The ranch?” Daryl’s face scrunches faintly in bewilderment, “When did you live on a damn ranch?”

“The commune,” Jesus corrects, “It was the ranch, but—”

“Oh, lord,” Daryl shakes his head, “‘The ranch’. Could you come up with anything creepier? No wonder you were lonely at ‘the ranch’, if that’s what ya’ll named it.”

Jesus smirks, “Your fear of my little ‘cult’, as you so affectionately called it, is nothing more than indication of your own shortcomings.”

“Wow,” Daryl shakes his head, “That’s amazing.”

Jesus asks with a blend of attraction, and suspicion, “What?”

“How after all these years, you still remember every argument they taught you,” Daryl points at him, “If it wasn’t the end of the world, I’d be signing up.”

Jesus rolls his eyes so hard Daryl has a twinge of fear that they may not slide back down.

“I was there for over 20 years of my life,” he says, when the resentment of Daryl’s comment finally washes away. “If there was some brain-washing program unbeknownst to me, then I am fully programmed.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so good at Kung fu,” Daryl contemplates, “That, or you really like Bruce Lee films.”

“Funny you should mention it,” Jesus’ hand is that of a game show host presenting a brand new car, “I learned that at the creepy commune, too.”

“Did they teach you how to grow a beard at the creepy commune?” Daryl asks.

“No, that’s all me,” he reveals.

“Mm, see. Not as good a salesman as I thought,” Daryl scolds, “You could’ve had me.”

“I think it was the depression that helped grow my beard,” Jesus suggests, as he runs his hand down his chin.

“That can’t be right,” Daryl corrects, a gentle laugh beneath his words, “If that were so, I’d be fucking Rip Van Winkle.”

“Mythical English lore,” Jesus nods, “Hm. I can never put anything past you.”

“You don’t have to be a fucking historian to know him,” Daryl shakes his head, “You must think you’re the only one who knows how to read.”

Jesus looks both ways frantically, “Wait, I’m not?”

“You’re in the woods for a few months, and then you get to Hilltop, and screw an architect and somewhere in between then and now, you screwed a doctor too,” Daryl glosses over Jesus’ previous comment, “Is that it?”

“No,” Jesus draws, “Of course that’s not it. Look at me,” his hand glides down the expanse of his body like he’s showcasing a ruby, then flies out to the side. “Do I look that one dimensional to you?”

“Then keep running your mouth,” Daryl offers, “You’re good at it.”

“See, I think you’re enticed,” Jesus lures, “Maybe, you love a good adventure, and your books are getting stale. Maybe, you’re just too curious to turn away. Better yet,” he purrs, “Maybe you just can’t resist my smooth, sultry voice.”

“Maybe, just maybe,” Daryl proposes bleakly, “I like to hear stories about you suffering.”

Jesus makes a noise of disappointed retreat, “Yeah, okay, maybe you’re just a sadist. But, whatever! You’re going to pay a price.”

“I don’t carry money with me anymore."

“Don’t play dumb,” Jesus demands, knowing full, and well that Daryl is not, “I want something from you a little more personal than cash.”

“I think I need to call Denise,” Daryl recommends, “And put my shirt on.”

“You want to know all about me, you’re going to have to take me up on my offer."

“Refresh my memory,” Daryl requests.

“Art,” Jesus spreads his hands out like a small, quiet explosion, “The mansion has a whole room full of it. I invited you to come see it.”

Daryl nods, “If I get a chance, I’ll walk through.”

“No, with me,” Jesus clarifies, “Together. We can discuss.”

Daryl positions his hand out, “But, how do I talk about art with the smartest man left alive?”

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing,” Jesus says, his shoulder leaning in as he makes a valiant effort to be tender.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Daryl decides, “I’m not an art guy.”

“You would enjoy it,” Jesus ensures him, “It’s not as pretentious as I know you’re making it out in your head.”

Daryl is, in fact, considering how pretentious it will all be in his head. This doesn’t dissuade him from his decision.

“Just because I give you the time of day doesn’t mean I want to go look at art with you,” Daryl jabs at him. “There’s a lot of shit to do. I don’t feel like looking at art, or pretending that everything is hunky fucking dory.”

Jesus leans back, “I'm sorry, but I don't see how the suggestion could be so insulting to you.”

“Yeah, well all you see is what you want,” Daryl responds, jerking his covers over himself, “You don’t see people trying to get by after something terrible has happened. You just see… vulnerability.”

“Why would you say that?” Jesus’ voice is a wounded bird, “How could you say that?”

“Cause it’s the truth,” Daryl counters, “You don’t care about Negan, or me, or Maggie, or any of us,” Daryl shakes his head, “Just look at your builder friend, you go on and on to me about how great he is. That he helped you, and he wanted you. He had sex with you so he must have wanted you, and you talk about it all like he was nothing. Just another phase for you, I guess.”

“I cared about him,” Jesus asserts with stringency, his face a statue.

“That’s not what I’m getting,” Daryl’s voice is a harsh slap to the face, “All I hear is a guy who's upset his front steps never got finished.”

“No, no, no,” Jesus stands from the bed with one cruel breath of laughter, “Why are you saying this?”

“I told you, it’s just truth,” Daryl responds, turning his face from the man above him, “You need to hear it.”

“No, no it’s fucking not,” Jesus scoffs, and pulls his hand through his hair, “You know, if you’ve got some internalized bullshit you wanna mention now, it would really be beneficial for me going forward. Save me the hassle of getting punched in the face when I look at you a little too pleasantly.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Daryl throws his hand up at Jesus, “It ain’t that.”

“Then what?” he roars, “What have I done?”

“Nothing,” Daryl says quietly.

“No, you want to say I’m an opportunist, and you want to try and say that I don’t take things seriously? But, I can’t ask where this is coming from? After everything I’ve done for all of you—”

“You put a gun in Maggie’s hand,” Daryl says, keeping his face averted as to avoid Jesus’ inflexible glare. “Aaron told me all about that. That’s what you’ve done for us.”

“It ended up fine, didn’t it?” he throws his hand out, “And, I’m not the one who put the gun in her hand in the first place, am I? Did Aaron mention that?”

“Yeah, he did, ‘cause Aaron’s honest,” Daryl snaps to his bedspread, “You should take note.”

“Oh,” Jesus takes a step to the side, his voice an escalating taunt. “Oh, okay,” he looks at Daryl, his mouth curled up in astute fury. He speaks as though he has already won whatever battle is occurring between them.

“It’s such a shame that true, and honest Aaron’s with his boyfriend tonight, huh? And you’re stuck here again with the fucking opportunist.”

“You can quit all this,” Daryl motions at Jesus’ body, “What you’re saying to me ain’t coming across how you want. Just desperate.”

Jesus’ face feels as compressed as it is. He holds in every effortless quip to assess them for the desperation Daryl is claiming to detect. “I was honest with Maggie, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, and that’s the only reason she did what she did. You could’ve been planning the whole damn thing,” he grips his book into his hands by the binding. “Maybe that’s what you wanted to happen.”

“Oh boy,” Jesus tosses up his hands, and releases a bitter laugh, letting every precaution drop like a weight in his hands. “Now with the conspiracy theories. And you call me desperate.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me,” Daryl snarls, his face turning to Jesus, “Don’t fucking dare. Don’t even fucking try.”

Jesus is silent for a moment, his eyes set on Daryl, and burning through him.

Daryl feels like cheap sheet metal. “Just get, will you?” he almost begs.

“Yeah, I’ll go. The fucking vulture will stop picking at bones.”

“You’re just too fucking comfortable, okay?” Daryl booms, “I’m just—I’m tired, and I don’t want to have to—to put up with…” he exhales roughly, and let’s his voice devolve into a confused, but resolute confession. “I don’t know how to act right, I get it. But neither do you. You can’t tell me all these things.”

Jesus doesn’t fully understand, but he doesn’t have to. Daryl’s voice has his ego shrinking into a shamed child. Still, they both know it’s too late to talk.

“Go,” Daryl asks, trying his hardest to be anything but polite. Unbeknownst to him, there is a humility to the word that only Jesus can decipher.

“Yeah,” he nods in rigid agreement, “Yeah, I’m sorry.” He moves towards the door, and lets it close softly behind himself.

Daryl lays in the heaviness of his words, and actions until he knows that he is seconds away from tripping into a hole he won’t be able to crawl out of. At least, not for a handful of days. It will take an immensity of his composure to grapple to the surface, and out into a light that will beam on him with an avidity that can only be mistaken for derision. 

Every event which passed him by as he was buried within his own disposition will gather around him, and laugh until all is content again. All save for him, wrapped in the emotional paradox that has come to define him. When every defiant chip is brushed from his shoulders, he will still be picking them from his attitude for weeks like briars.

He reels himself from the edge, but not without the twinge of dread from peering down into its depth. He throws his book across the room, then wills himself to sleep with all the aggression of a moth hitting the side of a glass jar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstreet's Back, alright...


	15. Intermezzo Perpetual

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# Chapter 15

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# Intermezzo Perpetual

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Jesus’ body is barely visible from the bed of their hotel room. He’s propped himself into a dingy white lawn chair, placed for his convenience on the balcony. An aroma of pot is carried inside through the sliding door, and wraps its way silently around the man watching from between the sheets.

Tim had only met the man outside three days ago, but they hadn’t parted since then. He was well aware that this chapter, that was more of just a footnote, was coming to a close. Their saga ended today, and there would be no sequel.

In the man’s own words, he was just passing through. Tim knew that the grand voyage Jesus had portrayed to him would not be halted on account of some clingy weekend fling. He wasn’t prepared to be that person, and he had no intention of becoming the metaphorical embodiment of gum on someone’s shoe. Yet, Monday’s sun was breaking through the skies at an alarming pace, and his bag still lie unpacked. Jesus, on the other hand, hadn’t left one article out of arm’s reach. 

He hauls himself out of bed one leg at a time. He grabs a blanket to wrap over his shoulders, and shoves the hitching glass door wide enough for his body to pass through.

Jesus doesn’t turn to look at him, but asks, “Didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, no,” Tim shakes his head with a smile, “Hey, you can’t smoke here, you know.”

Jesus is shirtless, and his hair flows down around his neck. A pair of sweatpants hang from his lower half, and his tennis shoes are unlaced on his feet. He mulls the rolled paper between his fingers, eyeing it with skepticism. He turns to Tim, an unnerving lack of mirth in his voice, “You didn’t care to follow the rules last night. Or, the night before that.”

“Yeah, well,” he chuckles and braces his back against the guard railing, “That was before you were leaving.” 

Tim didn’t make a habit of one night stands, or three night stands in the current case sitting across from him. With that being said, Jesus wasn’t his first experience. 

In the orange glow of a hotel corridor, or the dark sheets of a bedroom, it wasn’t a difficult task to be fooled by the one you were waking up beside. Whether it be age, or height, or size, or personality, more often than not, and by that he means almost always, it was unfortunate to realize what you had settled for in a fit of loneliness the night before. 

Jesus was, for some celestial reasoning beyond his understanding, a different breed altogether. In bed, he was generous, and passionate. He was endlessly compelling with each word he spoke. He was the feeling of buying a shirt you knew would never fit, only for it to be your favorite piece of every wardrobe. He wasn’t someone you sneak out to avoid; He was someone you take home to meet your mother, if only to assure her you can still have healthy relationships.

Now, that same man, that same feeling of unanticipated bliss, was about to walk out of his life forever. Tim wasn’t fond of admitting his attachment for most anything, let alone something that would very soon be disappearing, but he liked Jesus.

There was no solution, and he wasn’t looking for one. Perhaps, what dragged him into another conversation, and not out the door was the hope that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same. That leaving him was harder than he was letting on. At least then, Tim would know that he had left something in return, besides a hickey, or stain of wine on his shirt.

“Ah, I see why you got up so early,” Jesus hums, his eyes locked in on the stream flowing steadily beneath them, “You thought I’d leave you with the bill.”

“I didn’t think that,” Tim defends, with a shake of his head, “I figure you already paid.”

“You think I make a habit out of fucking boys like you, then skipping town? Getting a nice relaxing weekend, and a free room?” Jesus glances at him, and flicks some ash onto the floor, “I think you just gave me a new idea.”

“I don’t think I have to plant ideas like that in your head,” Tim rejoins. 

“I already paid,” Jesus admits. “Lucky for you.”

Tim huffs laughter, then looks down at his bare feet, and frowns. “I feel like I’m contracting something from this carpet. Put that out, and come inside.”

Jesus leans forward in his chair to admire the foundation they stand on, “Not a fan of carpeted cement?”

“As much a fan of it as I am carpeted bathrooms,” Tim replies, “Are you really going to get high before you go meet your dad?”

“This won’t get me high,” Jesus assures him, “At least not enough to deal with my father.”

“You’ve spent the whole weekend avoiding your dad. That wasn’t enough for you?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Jesus replies with a swift firmness, “In fact, I’m about one more comment about my family away from throwing myself into that very tranquil brook.” He points with his cigarette towards the waters, “But, I’ll write a nice suicide note first. Don’t worry, it won’t look incriminating.”

“Is being an ass making you feel better about confronting your dad?” Tim inquires, “It seems that way to me.”

Jesus’ eyes soften as he takes a long inhale. He speaks as smoke drifts past his lips, “I’m just not ready. I don’t think I’m ever going to be ready.”

“No, you won’t be, so you might as well get it over with,” Tim suggests.

“I just… fuck, I hate him. I’ve never even met my dad, not really, and I hate him,” he looks up at Tim, “How tragic is that?”

Tim stares at Jesus as he speaks, “My mom was in the military. She died when I was thirteen. Everybody has something tragic, Paul. You have to face your dad, if only to punch him in the jaw, or let him know just how fucked up what he did to you was.”

“Ah, no, no, no. Then the new wife might sue,” Jesus chuckles, “New, fuck, he’s been with her for years now. Oh, god, they’re probably in love. I feel so fucking sick.”

Tim comes closer, the wind tossing his hair like marram grass, “I’m sure the cab sauv and mapo tofu is mixing swimmingly with the anxiety over your father.”

“I can’t do it. Oh, god, maybe I can just go back to Florida,” Jesus offers, Tim’s presence vanishing with each second.

“And what, Paul?” He asks, hand splayed out in front of him, “Work in a souvenir shop? Live in an over-priced, aqua colored condo until that gets boring too?”

“Sounds better than having a panic attack on the balcony of some motel in Knoxville,” Jesus takes a hard puff, then swivels his head to face Tim. “You don’t know me. You think you know me ‘cause I talk a lot, and talk too much, but you don’t know me.”

“I never said I did,” Tim defends, “But, it’s clear to me you don’t know what you want, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. You might as well see if your dad has something to offer you.”

“He could offer me the world, and I would spit in his face,” Jesus states quietly.

Tim throws his hands up, “Fine, don’t go meet him, then. But you drove all the way from Florida just because he asked, and now you’re an hour from his house. You came all this way for some reason, whether you want to admit it or not. You could have told him to fuck off over the phone, but you didn’t do that either.”

“I don’t want to meet him,” Jesus says, his voice a shaking hand, “I don’t want to hear his excuses, or see the life he’s built. I’d sooner like to believe I was just a product of immaculate conception.”

“Then why are you here?” Tim asks softly.

Jesus sucks his lower lip in, then releases it with a sigh. His eyes are still transfixed mostly on the nature that surrounds him. Tim is forced to listen to every creak, and groan of the joints of Mother Earth as Jesus contemplates what he wants to say, and exactly how to say it.

“I want him to try and… explain it to me,” Jesus rubs his temple, the last burning remnants of his smoke shrinking between his fingers. “I want him to say, ‘This is why, Paul.’” He points his hand out in a starch, stabbing motion, “To— to, I don’t know. I just know there’s something I need. A right and a wrong answer, and I’ll know which one it is when the words leave his mouth. I know that.” He looks at Tim, and repeats, “I know that, but I don’t want him to give me the right answer.”

“And what’s the right answer?” Tim ponders more than questions.

“Maybe he really loves this woman,” Jesus unleashes a haggard breath, then inhales it back within himself. “Maybe I’ll be able to see that in his eyes, and as much as I want to hate him, I’ll have to concede.” He extinguishes what’s left of his fuming relaxation into fluttering ashes on the side of his chair, and lets it float onto the floor, and into the wind.

“So what if he loves her,” Tim laughs with bemusement, “What’s that got to do with him screwing over you and your mom?”

“Well, hey, let’s break it down. For starters, I don’t fucking know what love is,” Jesus says, his tone creeping towards a yell, “How the hell can I be a judge of what is acceptable, when I’ve never loved anyone in my life? I loved my mom, but that’s a given, and now even she’s gone. The ranch is gone, my sense of fucking self is gone, and what do I have left? How the fuck do I tell him, ‘How dare you?’ When I can’t even begin to understand what love can compel you to do? What it’s like to really need something?” Jesus crosses his arms against his chest, “Maybe he didn’t love her, or maybe he didn’t want me, or maybe he was sick of living on the ranch. I don’t know what was going in his head, and I’m not going to hurt myself trying to—to understand his thought process. I’ve done that enough, and trust me, it will get you nowhere. He can say what he wants, I just hope to God he’s an asshole.”

Tim’s eyes are filled with a world of difference as he asks, “Why on earth would you hope for someone to be an asshole?” 

Jesus doesn’t respond. Whatever pangs of desperation, and patience for its abolishment resided in him fade, and are now nothing more than a dull rumble. A somber quaking he was much too accustomed to.

Tim walks over to Jesus, and pushes his fingers through his hair. The man’s eyes close slowly to his touch.

“Let’s take your car, okay? I’ll get you something to calm down, and we’ll go get some breakfast before you leave. I know your dad’s not expecting you ‘til twelve right? My brother will give me a ride back here if I call him. I can drop my stuff off in my car before we go.”

“If you want,” Jesus shakes his head, “I’m sorry, you probably have work. I’ve kept you here so long.”

“Only as long as I wanted to be here,” Tim replies simply, “I don’t have to go in until Tuesday.”

“I’ll checkout downstairs, take my luggage to the car,” Jesus takes a deep breath, “Go ahead and shower, whatever you need to do. I’ll meet you in the lobby. Sound good?”

“Yeah, let’s go inside.”

Jesus allows Tim to pull him out of his seat, and remarks as their bodies pass the sliding doors, “I should’ve used an ash tray.”

Tim looks back at him as he walks towards his bag on the ground, “I was just kidding about not being able to smoke, you know. If they tried to stop everyone who walked through those doors, the staff would have their hands full.” He laughs brightly, “You saw the man who checked us in. I think you could take him.”

The words traveling the space between them never make it to Jesus. Although he would like to blame it on something substantial, he purely wasn’t listening. He grabs his hoodie, and begins to tug it over his head as he speaks, “I still feel bad.” He considers the response to be an appropriate catch all for whatever Tim was saying. 

He drops to his knee, and ties his shoes to his feet. As he’s rising up, the other man approaches him with one pill in his hand.

“Take a bar if you need it, but let me drive alright?” He dumps the medication in Jesus’ hand, then turns his back to him to walk towards the bathroom, “And eat something when we get there, will you?”

Jesus tosses it into his pocket, and pulls the handle on his luggage up. He wheels it behind him as he follows Tim to the door, “Yeah, yeah alright.”

He turns on his heel suddenly in the entrance of the bathroom to look at Jesus. “Hey,” he says flippantly, his hand touching the other man’s chest, “I have something to tell you.”

“Which is?” Jesus asks, his hand on the door handle.

Tim plants a kiss on his lips, and pulls away with a sharp smirk.

“I think I’m going to miss you,” he closes his eyes, and shakes his head, “Now that’s what’s really tragic, huh?”

He nods, “Yeah, yeah it really is.”

Tim gives him a lighthearted smile, then disappears behind the bathroom door. Jesus drifts out of the room, and off to the nearest elevator. The ride down is more ominous than usual.

The room key slips from his wallet, and he hands it to the bustling older woman behind the counter. With all the gentility of a front desk attendee, she informs him that there is coffee and bagels available to him at the far end of the lobby. He takes the opportunity with a sluggish captivation. 

As he secures the bread between a thin napkin, he chats rather naively with the clerk. Weather, tourism, anything he deems as a wholesome distraction from the pit in his stomach. There is only a moment of content silence dedicated to the sounds of his coffee filling a styrofoam cup. 

Through the balancing act of each breakfast item between his fingers, he still manages to walk through the lobby with some semblance of tact. The cool dawn embraces him slowly, then with a blustering haste as he shoulders himself beyond the entrance. The wheels of his luggage rumble with a sense of urgency over the pavement. After tossing his baggage into the back seat, the car door slams with a casual finality.

He snatches the coffee from the roof, sloshing some on his hand as he hauls himself inside. He startles on instinct, but it is already losing its warmth. He pulls the door shut, starts the engine, and searches for the gift Tim had presented him minutes prior in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie.

He downs the tablet with a swig of regular blend, and takes a bite of his bagel as he pulls out of the parking lot, and onto the street. In those few, floating moments from the motel to the interstate, he knows there is an absent emotion he should be experiencing. Whether it be the stinging spray of ocean water in his face, as a missed boat slides out of port or something as mundane as guilt. For him, it’s all vindicated. 

Jesus knows a secret that no one else can see. He is a fish out of water, gasping for air almost every minute of every day. He wasn’t a suitable partner; he was barely suitable for the life he led.

Leaving was the nicest panacea he could ever offer someone. If anything, he’s elated that the weekend they shared never brought about an exchanging of numbers.

Heavy storm clouds shower a mist of humid rain that embraces him both physically as it trickles down the metal encasing him, and mentally as his brain hovers far above a new slew of undesirable impressions. There is a methodical, mind-numbing pleasure in syncing his chewing with the gloomy wave of the windshield wipers. The highway is still, and open save for the few, lonely cars that trail alongside him. Each eventually turn off onto a short stretch of street leading to their home, or Monday’s commute to work.

When the final exit is taken, he coasts down the lonely roads of a small town that may have been poky if his mind wasn’t moving at the same pace. 

He steers into the parking spot of a convenience store a few minutes outside of his destination. He climbs out of the car, and ducks into the back seat to gather the change of clothes he prepared the night before. He finds a plastic bag underneath the seat, and shakes it out to ensure it won’t impair the transportation of his garments. Once assured it is free of holes or other conspicuous content, he fits the outfit from inside his suitcase into the crinkling receptacle. He zips the valise, and withdraws from the vehicle.

His shoes squeak from the slick tarmac beneath him. He takes careful attention to wipe his feet on the worn welcome mat outside the establishment before he walks inside.

A man looks at him from behind the counter, and gives him a courteous bob of the head.

Jesus smiles, then holds the bag in his hands up to offer a better view to the man, “Hey, you wouldn’t mind if I change in your bathroom, would you?”

The man shrugs, “Don’t see why not.”

“Thanks,” Jesus says with a nod of his head. He walks towards the lavatory, and locks the push button handle once he’s inside.  
He flips the light on, and sits his bag in the sink. 

With all the resistance of dunking a hand into a pit of spiders, he pulls his hoodie off and lets it float onto the grimy tiles beneath him. His favorite outerwear was worth the sacrifice to keep his bare feet from touching the floor. A sacrifice, he thinks, only necessary due to his own choice to forgo socks.

He follows the pattern of popping each shoe off, then stepping the uncovered foot onto the square of fabric formerly known as his hoodie. He slips off his sweats, but lays them over the sink, instead of in a pile on the ground similar to his runners.

Out of the grocery sack, he pulls a dark green flannel shirt with blue plaid. Casual, yet sophisticated he thinks. He pairs it with denim. Less of a conscious decision, and more so his only option in the category of nice pants. Nice being subjective, he understands.

He stares in the mirror under the sterile light above him for a solid minute. He interrogates his own fashion choices with scathing review, and comes to a draw with himself.

With wallet, keys, phone and lighter transferred into back pockets, he laces his shoes back to his feet, and stuffs his previous attire into the bag. He looks to the wall beside the sink, and sees a withering notification to all employees. It is a benevolent warning to properly cleanse the hands before returning to work. He takes the advice, and counts down from twenty in his head as he washes. He scrubs them dry over the top of his thighs, then bustles out of the room and over to the counter. 

“Marlboro blacks,” He confronts the man again. He runs his hand through his hair, then points at the item in question, “And two of the Swisher cigarillos. Regular, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” the man replies with a bored neutrality as he turns to grab the packs.

When he turns back around, Jesus takes a few steps away from the cash register.

“Hey, weird question, but uh, do I look okay to you?” he spreads his arms out slightly, “What would you say?”

The man sighs, and lays the two packages on the top of the counter. He eyes Jesus, then decides, “Well son, I guess that depends on what you’re trying to look like.”

Jesus laughs, “Passable,” he answers truthfully, “I’m meeting my dad. We’re getting lunch, and I just want to make a good impression. First impression.”

The man nods, “And you don’t think you look good, is that it?”

Jesus wavers, “I think I look fine.”

“Then there you go,” the man responds, “You don’t need an old man’s opinion of you, do you?”

Jesus tips his head, “No, I guess not, but it would be a nice reassurance.”

He snorts laughter lazily as he rings up Jesus’ items, “Alright, well then I think you look just fine. Your dad’ll be happy to see you.”

“I hope your right about that,” Jesus shakes his head, as he tugs his wallet from his jeans, “But thank you.”

“That’ll be $9.32,” The man answers simply, as he bags the items.

Jesus hands him the cash, trying his best to ignore the approaching vacancy of his billfold. He picks up the bag with his free hand, “Thanks. For these, and the compliment.”

“It wasn’t no compliment now,” The man replies, “You asked me a question, and I answered you.”

Jesus smirks, and spreads out his arms, “Fair enough. Either way, I appreciate it.”

As he leaves the store, the man imparts with him, “Good luck, kid.”

“I will absolutely need it,” Jesus wags his finger at the man as he passes through the door, “Have a good one.”

When he’s back on the road, he wedges the cigarette that was previously between his fingers into his mouth, and pulls out his phone. There’s a nameless number that his thumb presses, and a brief text history appears on his screen. A single text from the string of digits presents an address, leaving a gap of space beneath it. One could only assume that his father was a man of few words.

His car turns onto his father’s street at 10:10. There’s a large house that matches the box number on his phone. He locks it, and throws it in the passenger seat with a light thud.

He drives a few houses down, and puts his car in park. All it would take was one foot stepping in front of the other until he reached his father's doorstep. He could jab the doorbell, close his eyes, and leap head first into the unknown.

The maxim, however said nothing of those fashionably early. Decorum provided he arrive at the time that they had previously settled upon. Another two hours was chump change in exchange for the miles he left behind him. Patience was one of his virtues, and virtues didn’t dissipate under a little pressure.

Stalling was surprisingly easy. He rolled up his window, and popped open the glove box to find a wealth of cassettes. It made him, if only for a passing moment appreciate his mother’s Grenada. The car was a piece of shit, sure. Jesus could acknowledge that, but the cassettes, and the radio that could play them reminded him of his mother in rich detail. 

Each fading cover which stared up at him was a memory. A hair brush sweeping through his locks as he cringed, his mother relaying that this was why most boys didn’t strive for long hair. A sing along, with no expectations, or rules.

A lazy Sunday between two people, who only had enough room in their heart for one another. 

That was why he kept the glove box closed. Most days, he couldn’t afford the cost of the reel in his head spinning on, and on. Today though, he needed to hear his mother’s voice, even if it could only be reached within the fuzzy strum of a guitar.

The best of Lobo and 10cc keep him company while he pushes the tobacco from his cigarillo, and fills it with a more acceptable substance from his suitcase compartment. With the volume button up, and his mouth preoccupied he drives out of the development, and down the surrounding streets. Restaurants, local gyms and gas stations pass him by, until he swerves into a perfectly uninhabited parking lot of a strip mall. The scent of the herb fills the interior, and scenes fill his head like a music video set against the sounds pouring from the very core of the transmission.

12:00 comes quickly. Quicker than he was expecting. 

He stubs out his cigarette in the ash tray, and heads back to the house he had previously visited. There is a vehicle in the driveway when he cuts the engine across the street, and he waits for anyone, or thing, to stir before stepping out of the car.

He waits, and waits, and waits.

He waits until his phone vibrates in the seat beside him. There is a message from the combination of numbers, that reads, _“R u going 2 be late??”_

Jesus takes a deep, steadying breath. When the divers on TV, competing for gold, or silver, or the chance to just be present, would suck in the air around them, they were preparing themselves. He didn’t have to understand the sport to understand that. It’s the smallest action one can take to symbolize to themselves just how sensible, and stable they are. They’re trained, and they’re ready. It’s just a jump that they’ve rehearsed a thousand times.

Jesus is no Olympian. 

_“Car troubles. Same time tomorrow?”_

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns off his phone, and jams it into his pocket. He slams the eject button, and lets WJCW blare the stock report as he veers into the nearest motel.

Jesus learned at a young age that it wasn’t heroes who prospered. You either become a monster to slay a monster, or you are eaten alive. Though he tries with all his might, he never seems to make the transformation, but through it all he finds himself still standing. After years of struggle, the realization strikes him that being a hero is a choice, and conquering the fire breathing hand that you were dealt is optional.

All he had to do was survive.

That night, beside a man he had met a few hours before, he watches in disbelief as the news reporter on the television before him is eaten alive by his co-anchor. The static of the barely-functioning electronic hisses in his ear. It’s the sound of an 8 track player, or tires peeling away. 

He takes a steadying breath, and wakes the stranger asleep next to him.

“I think the world is coming to an end,” he says plainly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may have been a little confusing, but I like to write my stories like they're episodes you're watching. This was a flashback for Jesus that will tie in to the rest of my story. I hope you enjoyed reading it; this chapter is my favorite yet. I was so proud of so many elements of this chapter, and really loved the concept.
> 
> The next chapter is coming soon. Comments, kudos, and all forms of feedback are always appreciated, and much desired! Thanks, and enjoy.


	16. La Soufrière

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# Chapter 16

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# La Soufrière

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Chirping birds rouse Jesus out of bed.

It’s not necessarily the velocity, or pitch of their cheerful banter back and forth which has him scrubbing his face in a rather futile attempt to wake up. Instead, their voices are an indicator that he should already be in forward motion.

A pair of pants folded on the other side of the room are quickly tossed into the crook of his arm, along with a few other items of necessity. He punches each foot into his boots, and traipses his way to the mansion, taking careful precaution to not make eye contact with anyone, or anything. He heaves in, and nestles his clothes closer to his chest as a gust of cold wind attempts to tackle him. Jesus is a football player, just trying to rush himself to the end zone of the mansion.

“Jesus,” Maggie greets, as he enters through the grandiose doors. A long grey sweatshirt adorns her torso, and her posture indicates that she has not been conscious for long. “You going to shower?”

“Yeah,” Jesus responds blankly, his feet already climbing the steps to the next floor.

Maggie walks to the foot of the staircase, and calls up to him, “Well, Enid is using it.”

Jesus stops mid-step, and turns to face her.

“You wanted me to go on a run,” he says, as though these eight words should permit him a privilege he is not being allowed.

“Yeah? And she was there first,” Maggie props her palm against the handrail, “Wait your turn.”

Jesus sighs, and lets his head roll to the side as his body slouches down. “Fine, I’ll wait my turn,” he concedes, “I hope we can get back before next year.”

Maggie closes her eyes, breathes in, and looks back up at him. “I’m going back to my office, now,” she imparts with him.

“Have fun, sitting there, reveling in your leadership,” Jesus calls, too genial to be taken as anything but cavalier.

His words catch her body before it turns to leave. She battles within herself, the obvious choice to walk away is beaten down by an instinctual need to offer her support. She sides with the victor, against her better judgement. 

“You in a mood?” She asks, her neck craned to see him better from the top landing.

“I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?” he responds sharply.

“You seem a little…” she eyes him carefully, “…Frigid.”

“Frigid?” He repeats, as though the term is a foreign concept, “How have I acted frigid? Sure, I haven’t been a ray of sunshine, but I’ve hardly been frigid. If anyone was frigid between the two of us, it was you.” 

Maggie realizes, throughout Jesus’ prattling, that she should stop engaging altogether. Escape into the woods, live in a mud hut, and forget the English language entirely. Speaking would be a concept of the past; she could communicate through grunts, and nonverbal expressions. No more conversations about who was, and was not frigid.

“You were sorta short with me, so I thought you might be mad about something. I guess you were just tired—”

“I am tired, Maggie,” Jesus begins harshly, his hands braced against the railing in front of him. “I’m tired of fighting every day of my life. I didn’t get any sleep last night, and I don’t most nights.”

Maggie nods with all the passion of a woman forced to absorb absolute bullshit. She wishes she could claim it was unsolicited, but she brought this upon herself.

“I’m not in a bad mood, I’m just taking this seriously,” he says with devotion to the words, however loose, “I take all this to my core. It affects me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Maggie says, a yawn escaping her as she speaks.

“Oh, you don’t believe me?”

Maggie shakes her head, “Nope, no, I believe you, it’s all good.”

“Whatever, I’m done talking,” Jesus states, before continuing on. “Everyone here respects me except you people.”

“Can I go out on a limb, and say this is about Daryl?” she asks, a hesitation to keep digging herself further into the emotional pit, otherwise known as Jesus.

“I am not mad about—oh, my God,” he laughs dryly, “This is in no way about him.”

“Yeah, okay, just checking,” Maggie puts her hand up.

“It’s actually really insulting to think I have no emotions outside of Daryl,” he says, voice bristled, “I can feel things, Maggie. Despite what everyone seems to believe. I have feelings, and sometimes I’d like to be respected. Maybe you don’t understand, but I do want to be respected.”

Although Maggie has to struggle to keep her eyes open during Jesus’ monologue, she does grasp some string of insults directed at her, and her lack of respect.

“I respect you,” she answers, her demeanor that of a mother appeasing her very temperamental son. “Let’s forget I said anything, good?”

“Thank you,” Jesus says hesitantly, “I appreciate that.” He let’s go of the handrails, and sighs, “And for your information, yes, me and Daryl did get into it last night, but I hardly see how that’s relevant.”

“You gotta just leave him alone,” Maggie says, as though the suggestion should be self-evident, and her vocalization of it is a burden.

“Leave him alone?” Jesus questions.

“Yeah, mind your own business,” Maggie clarifies, “He’s going through a lot. He ain’t in the mood for playing nice, and you shouldn’t expect him to.”

“Trust me, the way he talks to me, I have never,” Jesus defends with a rising indignation at her words. “All I’ve been is a friend to him when he needed it.”

“You’re right, he needs a friend,” Maggie’s voice is lazy, but her message is a dagger thrown towards his head, “So be his friend.”

Jesus has a penchant toward donating his own advice. The charity stirred in him a sense of inclusion. An act that proclaimed to all that he was a good listener, and was fond enough of the ear who was hearing him out to make a comment at all. It’s hard to explain why, then, that an offering of such kindness to him translated more as a slap on the wrist.

“I am his friend,” Jesus maintains. He is vouching for himself; he makes certain his own testimony is a credible one. “What are you saying?”

Maggie’s smirk is a secret she can keep to herself with ease, “I have a history with him. He likes you, and you… need to be aware of that.”

“He talks to me, I think like is being generous,” Jesus crosses his arms.

“Look, I don’t get it either. I can’t stand you,” Maggie jokes. Jesus’ expression conveys to her that the approach is lost on him.

“I was being nice telling you why I was upset,” Jesus expounds, “And now you’re making fun of me. I’m starting to doubt this so-called respect.”

“No,” Maggie says swiftly, “I’m not making fun of you.”

“I know you’re all very close, and you don’t trust me. Daryl told me that much last night.”

Maggie exhales, “Daryl was being dramatic.”

“I think he was just being honest,” Jesus says. “If you think I’m using Daryl for companionship, you’re wrong. He can take care of himself, and to him, I’m just something to pass the time.”

Maggie’s restraints on herself are equivalent to the harnessing of a thousand rushing bulls. “Now you’re being dramatic,” she notes only.

“I’m just putting into perspective everything that you’ve said,” Jesus quips.

“No, you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Hardly putting words in your mouth when you say it to my face,” he returns.

In that moment, she resigns. A soft laugh escapes her, “You’re a menace when you’re mad, aren’t you? Remind me to never mention Daryl to you again.”

“I think I’m being exceedingly kind given the circumstances,” Jesus broadcasts to her fleeting back, “And I can talk about Daryl!”

“You know,” Maggie offers, halfway to her office, “Just cause someone pisses in your cornflakes doesn’t mean you gotta go pissing in other people’s.”

“Actually, I digress,” Jesus leans over the top of the railing to talk down at Maggie. “If I have to taste piss, so does everyone else,” he declares, pointing his finger out at everyone else. 

“Bad, bad imagery, Paul,” Maggie waves her hand at him as she disappears behind her office door, “Go shower.” 

He turns from the railing, and plods to the top floor, muttering beneath his breath at the usage of his God given name. He tries the bathroom door on wishful thinking, but the lock keeps the knob from budging.

“Occupied!” A young voice calls out from behind the wooden barrier. Her tone indicates how antagonized she already feels. 

Jesus steps away from the restroom, and stays in motion until he reaches a divan placed squarely into the end of the hall. His clothes sit beside him as he waits with all the patience of a tsunami to clean himself. He leans his neck back, and lets his skull bump into the wall. He positions his eyes onto the milky white of the ceiling above him. A painful five minutes drag on before a voice forces his face forward.

“Are you ready to go?” Aaron asks, “You don’t look like you’re ready to go.”

“You’re so perceptive,” Jesus chides, “Tell me, does being friends with Enid allow you first dibs on the shower?” He swishes his hands together, “Is that you guy’s little agreement?”

“I shower at night,” he slides his backpack up, and more securely over his shoulder, “That’s what you should’ve done.”

“I was busy last night,” Jesus briefs him with acrimony.

Aaron opens his palm, and lifts his brow, “With what, exactly?”

“Absolutely none of your business,” he snaps.

“You’re right,” Aaron makes a click in the back of his mouth, and exhales, “I really don’t care that much. Thanks for reminding me.”

“I just want to get this over with,” Jesus announces, “Get more stuff for Negan to take from us, and get back here as quickly as possible.”

“Right, of course. I would too, if I was as busy as you were,” Aaron unzips a pocket on the side of his satchel, and pulls out a juice pouch. As he tears the straw from the back and unwraps it, he says, “I don’t know what your problem is. You seemed fine last night.”

Jesus watches him stab the thin plastic into the metallic packet in his hand before responding. “I couldn’t sleep well. What do you care?”

“Like I said, I don’t,” Aaron reminds him between sips.

“And for that matter, if we’re playing twenty questions—”

“We’re not, though,” Aaron interrupts.

“Why don’t you have a problem, hmm? One could accuse you of being too happy.”

“Well, for starters, I found my favorite jacket this morning. My boyfriend loves me, and we got to spend time together last night. We’re both alive, and the bed they gave me is pretty comfortable,” he lifts his juice up, “I’ve got a delicious beverage. My—”

Jesus raises his hand, “Okay, that’s enough.”

“You asked,” Aaron defends, “Besides, I’m not that happy, just not miserable.” He looks up, and smirks, “Except for my jacket, Eric had lost it. It is good to have it back.”

“I’m not miserable,” Jesus harps.

“I’d hate to see you miserable then,” Aaron says before another slurp.

The door of the bathroom is thrust open, and Jesus stands to his feet in unison. Enid emerges, and looks down the hall at both of them.

“Hey, Aaron,” she greets with what for her is a bright salutation.

“Hey to you, too,” Jesus huffs with exasperation, his feet moving towards the door. He slams into the room past Enid.

“What is his problem?” Enid asks, as she turns her attention from Jesus’ antics to Aaron.

“Who knows,” Aaron comments to the door, then to her, “More importantly, who cares.”

Enid smiles and nods, “True.”

Aaron pulls another pouch from his bag, and hands it to Enid as they walk back downstairs to Maggie’s office.

“Hey,” she says from her desk, “Are you leaving?”

“Whenever Jesus gets out of the shower.” Aaron tosses the two empty packets into the waste basket by the door, “Why do you have a trash can?”

Maggie looks at the receptacle for the first time, “I guess it was there when I got here.”

“I would let him take his time,” Enid refocuses the conversation, “He’s in rare form,”

“Don’t I know it,” Maggie says in a snit, “He went off on me. Respect, and loyalty, and being used. I didn’t process half of it. He’s pissed about Daryl.”

“I think he’s just pissed about something in general,” Aaron says, “A constant state of subdued… piss-ness.”

Maggie cups her hand to her forehead, “I’m not talking about piss again this morning. It’s too early.”

“The fact you’ve had a conversation about it at all,” Enid comments.

“Come on, I’ll go with you to make sure the car is ready,” Maggie tells Aaron. She turns her attention to Enid, and adds, “We need to help Bertie with the chickens.”

“Today?” Enid asks.

“Yes, today,” Maggie confirms, standing from her desk, “Go on, I’ll come help you in a second.” Enid obliges her request with a begrudging step out the door. Once she’s gone, Maggie turns her attention back to Aaron. “You’ll be back before dark, right?” she asks.

“We should be,” Aaron says, “With everything we have here, we’ll just need a few necessities. I know to lookout for medicine.”

“If you see tampons, pads, and I mean any brand—”

“Already on the list,” Aaron assures her.

“I’ve had a lot of complaints about those,” she says wearily, before flashing him a smile. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably the same thing you’re doing now,” he stipulates with a grin.

“You flatter me,” she says, as they walk outside together.

With a quiet concordance that is only obtained through the rigorous comradery of post-apocalyptic coexistence, they watch Daryl trample out of the medical trailer, and over to Jesus’ own. Denise is close behind, clamoring on about a topic he is too disinterested to absorb.

There’s a synchronicity to their line of sight, but not to their line of thought. Aaron’s mind has unfurled like theatre curtains, and a tragedy, that feels more like a comedy, is playing out on the stage. It’s a simple tale where Daryl’s frail heart is crushed beneath the careless foot of someone who is too esoteric to ever care deeply for him. Denise, in all her blustering goodwill, is attempting to preserve what’s left of his withering esteem for self. Maybe there’s a lesson for all to learn, absolving in some cosmic way every party involved. All he can really deduce as the lights fade, is that there is a brewing compulsion to address the issue, whatever or whoever it may be.

In Maggie’s head, she’s merely assuming the worst, and a worst that she will undoubtedly have to resolve.

“Daryl…” Aaron says to her, still watching the scene unfold.

“Yeah, yeah,” Maggie nods. Her feet are already in motion as she finishes speaking, and Aaron follows by her side on instinct.

Denise looks at them as though they’re a glass of water in an unforgiving desert.

“Thank God, maybe you two can talk some sense into him,” she points to Daryl briefly, “Tell him to take it easy, will you?”

Daryl stoops down to be level with the steps in front of Jesus’ trailer, and looks up to inform them all, “I’m fine.”

“You took his sling off,” Aaron asks her, “Is that going to be okay?”

“Yeah, well, I had to or he was going to tear it off himself,” Denise contends.

“I would of,” Daryl assures, his attention back to the wooden contraption at hand.

“Daryl,” Maggie begins. “If you feel…” her exasperation seeps into the admonition, “I don’t know, bad, let someone know, alright? Don’t be so hard-headed.”

“I’m not,” he asserts, “I just wanna do this.”

“Do what, again? Why are we over here?” Aaron asks.

Denise sighs, “Fix Pete’s—”

“Paul,” Daryl corrects shortly.

“—Paul’s entrance here,” she motions to the object, “He wanted it fixed, and for some reason thought Daryl was in good enough shape to get the job done.”

“It was my idea,” he interjects.

Aaron in that instant becomes cognizant of the conversation he had shared with Jesus the night before. He looks down at Daryl, then at the two other women, and suggests, “Maybe it’d be good for him to get some exercise. He’s gonna have to start using it again.”

“Exactly,” Daryl says beneath his breath.

“It doesn’t matter what we think, he’s gonna do it anyways,” Maggie shrugs lightly.

Denise’s entire form is the embodiment of resignation, “Just be careful, will you? Maggie?”

“Be careful,” she reiterates to him.

“What are all of you people doing here?” Jesus questions from behind them. They all startle, and look at him as his voice filters through their private conference.

“You showered quick,” Maggie comments.

“What’s going on?” He inquires again. This time, there is an aggravation boiling beneath his curt interrogation of the group gathered outside his living quarters.

“Look,” Denise starts, “I took off his sling so he could fix your steps for you, but please, just take it easy on him, okay?”

“Take it—” Jesus focuses in on Daryl, “You.”

“Me?” Daryl asks.

“You,” Jesus verifies, walking closer to him. Maggie, Aaron and Denise part to let him pass. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“What are you talking about?” Daryl asks with sullen confusion, as he stands to face the other man, “I told you I was gonna fix them, didn’t I?”

“You’re making me look like the bad guy,” Jesus hisses.

“If the shoe fits,” Daryl returns.

“It does not fit, and you are not going to do this to me.”

“It’s always about you,” Daryl shakes his head, “Try and understand it ain’t for once.”

“So you’re not doing this out of spite?” Jesus asks. The question is a check mate, but Daryl perseveres.

“What’s it matter if it’s that, or if it’s something else? Said I’d do it for you, and I am.”

“So you admit you’re out here making a scene,” Jesus gestures to Maggie, Aaron, and Denise, “In front of all your friends, just because you want to spite me, is that it?”

“I’m making a scene?” Daryl turns his head, and huffs. He twists back around to him, and points his finger, “You’re the one making a fucking scene, and you know it well as I do. Stop turning shit around like you do.”

“Really? Cause I’m not the one hosting a pity party for being forced to work despite my horrible injury,” Jesus flares, “Now am I?”

“Did I act all pitiful? Did I?” He growls at the surrounding audience.

“No,” Aaron shakes his head.

“Not pitiful enough,” Denise notes.

“Is all this really necessary?” Maggie inquires.

“Yes,” Jesus, and Daryl respond in defiant accord.

Jesus’ sickeningly complacent smirk returns, and Daryl feels more mutinous to his own recently obtained ideas of civility than he has in years.

“Of course they agree with you,” he says.

“You know, now I got two hands free. The chances of you getting punched just doubled,” Daryl observes.

“So now getting punched in the face should be a concern for me?” Jesus challenges.

“I did it once,” Daryl seethes.

“I wouldn’t try it again.”

Daryl watches him quietly for a moment. He wrestles a measuring tape out of his coat pocket, and extends it to Jesus’ chest. 

“Here, you wanna do it yourself, do it your fucking self.”

Jesus takes it into hand, “Yeah, sure, why don’t you go on the run. You and Aaron can have time to yourselves.”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s gonna work,” Denise interjects nervously.

“Time to ourselves…” Aaron says quietly. He turns to Maggie, but her kinesics is that of someone devoid of any answers, or comprehension.

“I’m just fucking with him,” Daryl says, gripping the measuring tape in Jesus’ hand, “If he could build worth shit he wouldn’t get other people doing it for him.”

He makes motion to retrieve the gadget, but Jesus’ grip is still tight. “No, no, no,” he promises Daryl, “I can handle it myself. You go.”

“Give me the damn thing,” Daryl says, with a tug.

“I said I could handle it,” Jesus remarks, mirroring the action. Daryl is taken aback by the strength in his effort, but it does nothing to deter him from his indignation.

“Why the hell you need Calvin for then? If you’re a master fucking craftsman?”

“Who’s Calvin?” Maggie asks, reassessing her level of competency with the names of her own population of people. 

“It’s none of your business,” Jesus rebuts.

“Why would you bring something up just to say it’s nobody’s business?” Aaron wonders aloud.

“It really is none of ya’ll’s business,” Daryl agrees, “But someone had to start something up in front of everyone.” 

“You have contributed to this just as much as me,” Jesus counters, “And how dare you bring him up.”

“Why? I know you ain’t broken up about it,” he responds, “Don’t try to act like he meant something to you now.”

“You don’t know me,” Jesus growls.

“I do,” Daryl parries, “Now give me back my goddamn tape measure.” He gives it one last jerk, and the hand that kept it held so tightly releases it without struggle.

Jesus looks at him as though something is clicking into place, but Daryl isn’t in the headspace to pay the expression much mind. 

“You done now?” he asks, shaking the ruler at him.

Jesus doesn’t respond, but Maggie does.

“Guys,” she says, as their gates open with a resounding groan, “I think we have company.”


End file.
